Not that I’d want to. But if your reasons for leaving are to spite someone, or to hurt someone, it might be useful.
Mine aren’t. I just want the pain to end.
There are people who are leaving to get back at others, though. J_Doe111192 wrote on the Final Forum: My bf broke up with me 8 months ago today. Every day it hurts more and more. People tell me time will ease the pain, but it’s not. I found out he’s engaged and his fiancé is pregnant. He got me pregnant and made me get an abortion. I’m only 17. He killed our baby and he killed me. I want him to feel dead inside the way he makes me feel every day of my life.
How does she know he’ll even care?
The Final Forum is teeming with people who hate specific individuals. J_Doe122388 wrote how his three older brothers beat on him: They’d call me worthless pig shit and kick and punch me. Two held my arms while the other burned me with a lighter. Our dad hit us too but it hurt worse when my brothers took it out on me.
I’m glad I don’t have siblings.
J_Doe060391: In 7th grade I had this bff who I trust with my life. I told her everything all my secrets what happened to me when I was little. See my mom had a drug problem and sometimes she let men take pictures of me. I showed one to my bff and the next day it was on MySpace and everyone’s calling me a whore. She said she couldn’t be friends with a child porn star. IT WASN’T MY FAULT. Why’d she do that? Why’d she tell?
Because no one can be trusted.
In one day I count fifteen stories where people are cyberbullied. Like, they’d get texts or IMs harassing them, then telling them they should die. I guess they figured they might as well do it.
I’ve been there. People trick you by saying, “Let’s IM,” and you’re so desperate to believe they’re serious, you give out your screen name. Words pop up on your screen. “Oinker.” “Jiggle jugs.” Messages like, “Derek is hot for you. He wants to take you out on a date.” You think, Really? Until the next IM: “At the all-u-can-eat buffet.”
Why are people so cruel? What did I ever do to them?
I can’t even count the number of stories in the Final Forum about gay people coming out. This one J_Doe wrote that his mother said, I wish you’d never been born. You’ve ruined this family.
That’ll make you want to die.
Some kid’s father told him, “I’d rather kill you than have you be gay.”
He’s saving his father the trouble.
Kim’s never said anything like that to me—I’d rather kill you than have you be fat. But she never just accepted me for the way I was. She was always, “Let’s try this new diet. We’ll do it together. I could always lose ten pounds.” She was thinking, And you could lose a hundred. Of course, I’d cheat. Or cry at the table. Then Chip would sneak me snacks at night. I don’t blame him for sabotaging my diets; he had to be on them too. Hurting Kim or Chip is not my intent. I have no intent. I have no reason to live, that’s all. When I’m gone, I don’t want to be remembered.
I’m starting to feel anxious, so I log off. A tap on the door and Chip sticks his head in. “Whatcha doin’ now?”
If you only knew, Chip.
He eyes me and the computer. “Working on your story still?”
I don’t answer. He says, “Mind if I test something?”
He comes in and I get up out of the chair. I move to the bed. He powers on my PC and goes, “I sent you a message. I just want to make sure you got it.”
Don’t lie to me, Chip. All men are liars. I hate believing my dad is one of “those men.”
It’s hard to watch him sitting there, keying into my computer, hoping to key into my brain.
It’s the one place you have no access to, Chip.
“Is it a Word file? I won’t read it—unless you want me to.” He swivels his head and smiles. There’s, like, terror in his eyes.
I can’t look at him.
He turns back. “Everything seems to be working.”
Except me. I’m broken.
“Okay. All your files are set to ‘shared.’ I promise not to read them unless you ask me to.”
I wish I could trust him, my own dad. He’s the one who hacked into my computer and found out I’d been on the suicide boards again. Strictly verboten.
I wonder how he’d react to Through-the-Light. If he believes a Web site has the power to influence me to kill myself. Would he find the comfort I do in knowing I’m not alone? In feeling acceptance for my decision? No one’s putting thoughts in my head, Chip, that weren’t already there.
He stands. “How about a bowl of Ben and Jerry’s?”
That’s his answer to everything. It used to be mine too. Now I have a more permanent solution.
I get up to follow him.
I can’t sleep. I know what’s bugging me. I need to choose a method. The last method I chose was absolutely wrong.
To sit at my desk, I have to strap on the neck brace. It’s a pain.
I log on to Through-the-Light and select WTG.
Bullet to the Head
Effectiveness: 4–5 if done properly.
Time: If well aimed, instantaneous.
Availability: Easy in USA; more difficult in countries where guns are illegal, such as UK, China, Australia.
Pain: 4–5.
Notes: If you don’t die, you will experience excruciating pain and brain damage. Lots of willpower is needed to fire a gun at yourself. Bullet can miss vital parts in brain or deflect off skull. Preferable to use a shotgun rather than a pistol. For ammunition use .458 Winchester Magnum or soft-point slugs with .44 Magnum. People usually survive single .22 shots to the temple. Extremely messy for people who have to clean up after you.
No blood this time. Chip and Kim are still recovering from all the blood after the times I slit my wrists. Yeah, I failed more than once trying that method.
Someone’s coming. I have to power down.
Lie in bed. Play dead.
It’s Chip again. I know his breathing. I make sure he hears mine so he’ll leave.
As I lie there, breathing audibly, I’m thinking, Stupid screen name, hervehotsu. Why’d he have to make it so memorable?
I haven’t used IM in years. Not since the last time someone wrote, “r u the freak who slit her wrists? Why didnt u die?” That was long before Chip and Kim took my computer away the last time. When I got it back, it was understood: New start. Renewed trust. But we will restrict your usage with parental controls and traces, the way we did before. Please, Daelyn, promise. No suicide chat rooms.
I want to tell them, Kim, Chip. Computers don’t kill.
I wait for his footsteps on the stairs.
All this up and down, bed to desk, is taking it out of me.
The weakness, the emotional and physical impotence makes me do it. I check my old screen name. It’s there. How weird. People could be history, gone for years, and their IM accounts would still be active. If I’d known, I never would’ve laid tracks.
I create a new screen name. Random letters and numbers. It makes me flash back to this time an IM popped up on my screen: “I saw you in the shower in gym. Guess what? I took your picture.”
Immediately I deleted the three people on my buddy list. I’d only created that list because of a group project in history and someone suggested we talk on IM. So we wouldn’t have to meet in person, of course. So they wouldn’t be seen with me.
As soon as I got that message, my heart beat a hole in my chest. Oh my God, I thought. What if they put that picture on the Internet?
For weeks and weeks I searched. MySpace. Facebook. Twitter. I got so paranoid I couldn’t go to school. I made myself sick with worry. I cried so much Mom called the doctor.
Like a doctor could fix me.
I hate IM. It takes all my willpower to add him to my buddy list. As I key “hervehotsu,” my pulse races. “r u there?”
No response.
I let out a relieved breath. He’s not online. Maybe the “O” is a zero. I try “herveh0tsu. u there?”
Nothing.
Okay.
I stare at the blank screen.
For the hell of it, I key, “Can I borrow your laptop for a while? Not forever. This is . . .”
I key, “D.”
I look at it. It reminds me how that girl changed my D to an A. It also reminds me of the last time someone called me D, and how I don’t want to remember that—
I delete D and key “daelyn.”
Before my nerves are shot, I hit enter.
— 12 DAYS, 11 DAYS —
Another reason I hate the weekends—it doesn’t matter where I am or what I’m doing or how my parents attempt to distract me, I’m always alone with myself. The insults build in my brain until I’m ready to explode.
“Big fat farting pig.”
“Fatso. Lardo. Chubette.”
“Blimper. Heifer. Fudge pudge.” I’ve heard them all. Some out loud. Some online.
The more I hurt, the more I ate. Yeah, I was a blimp. A doctor told me once I was twice as heavy at five feet tall as I should be. He said with a smile, “You know, there’s a skinny person inside there trying to get out.” He thought he was being helpful. He gave me the idea to kill two birds with one stone. Make that two people—one trapped inside the other.
The moving didn’t help. Changing schools all the time. Kim and Chip rationalized it with Chip’s job—new assignments, promotions. They were embarrassed by me, their sick, fat, psychotic creation. I should’ve figured out sooner how we moved every time I . . . what did Kim call it? Regressed? She got that one right out of the psychology text.
I call it wacked out. Exceeding my hypersensitivity limit. My limit is one nasty comment in the hall. “Double wide, step aside.” While I slit my wrist, the voice plays over and
Over and
Over and
over and overand
overandoverand
overandoverandoverandoverandover and,
SHUT UP.
I didn’t know what self-immolation was, at first.
Self-immolation
Effectiveness: 3–4.
Time: Seconds to days.
Availability: 2–3.
Pain: 5.
Notes: If you have access to gasoline and a match, you can easily set yourself on fire. This is, however, one of the most agonizing ways to die. If you survive, you will be disfigured for the rest of your life. It’s recommended that you mix an explosive with the gasoline to make it burn much quicker. Make sure you’re far away from medical help.
No way I’m getting into pyrotechnics. No flare for the dramatic, so to speak. The method I choose this time will have to leave no residue—no blood, no excrement, no ashes to ashes.
Drowning
Effectiveness: 3–4.
Time: 5 minutes to die of drowning; 20 minutes to die of hypothermia
Availability: 1.
Pain: 1.
Notes: Find deep (cold) water in a remote area. Weigh yourself down with rocks in your pockets. Tie your hands and legs together. You can be revived from cold water drowning after several hours, since the cold retards terminal brain damage. Warmer water does not have the advantage of hypothermia (loss of consciousness, thus pain), but is more effective in making sure you stay dead.
Very, very frightening.
Chip knocks and I jump. He pops his head in and says, “Were you on just now? I detected a user.”
Casually, I darken the screen. As he’s checking out my PC I reach for my paperback.
Chip goes, “Huh. It must be one of the neighbors. I thought the network was secure.” He rubs the back of his neck as he leaves.
There’s no lake or river nearby. But don’t people die in bathtubs? Babies drown. Mothers drown their children. Didn’t I read a person could drown in an inch of water?
It occupies my mind. Drowning, drowning, drowning. People drown in bathtubs. How scary could it be?
It doesn’t have to be cold water. I hate the cold. Warm water would be soothing, relaxing. I could handle the panic. I would need to weigh myself down.
A plan crystallizes in my brain. It’s like a vision.
Daelyn’s Destiny.
About a week after we moved in, Chip said, “Why don’t I build you a bookcase?”
He went to Lowe’s and got planks and cinder blocks.
Kim said, “Why didn’t you just buy a preassembled shelving unit?”
There was an awkward silence. Chip was forced to say it. “The metal strips are sharp.”
Kim sucked in a breath.
The cinder blocks are perfect weights. I close my eyes and see it. Me, at the bottom of the bathtub with my hair flowing out in all directions. For once in my life, I’m beautiful.
— 10 DAYS —
He’s not there after school. Good. Problem solved. I’ll wear my brace to the end. I can read in bed by shifting from side to side for ten days. I can prop up on pillows. I can key in the Final Forum for short stretches of time. There’s a lot to key still if I’m going to tell everything, but ten days is an eternity.
Out of nowhere he appears, lugging a stack of laptops. The sight of him makes my breathing speed up. He plops down beside me. “I have three for you to choose from”—Hervé is draped around his neck—“depending on what you want to do. If you’re a gamer, this Dell has a two-gig Core Duo, another gig of RAM, and a screaming video card.” He sets it on my lap.
Why? Why would he . . . ?
“This LG has a blinding screen, but the snakeskin is cool. It comes with a wad of junkware you’ll never use.” He slides it on top of the first computer. My thighs feel the weight.
He can’t be serious.
“This Samsung, which I call the Mini Me, has touch screen and a fingerprint scanner, if you’re security minded. Plus, at two pounds it’s ultralight. I just got it.”
He balances the computer on top. It’s the one he was fooling with the other day. Hervé scrabbles around so he’s facing me, his beady eyes boring into my nostrils.
I want to ask him a vital question. Not the rat.
“I got the first two on Craigslist.”
That’s not it.
“The Mini Me was an early birthday present. Ask me why.”
I don’t care. But why would you give me . . . ?
“They’re Wi-Fi, of course.”
That’s it. As long as I have Internet access, I can get to Through-the-Light.
He waits a minute, looking smug. Just for that I decide to take his new one.
“Phenomenal choice. Enjoy the tunes I’ve downloaded. You can borrow my periphs too, if you want. Or anything else.”
He’s not supposed to be happy about it.
He won’t get anything from me. I should tell him the truth, that I don’t put out, that I never will no matter how nice he seems or how generous or desperate.
But damn. I want this laptop.
I slide it into my book bag at my feet, retrieve Desire on the Moor and a pen. I write in the margin, i only need it for 10 days. i’ll pay you 5 dollars a day.
He reads the note and goes, “Make it ten dollars.”
A hundred dollars? Forget it. I reach down to grab the laptop, and his hand spreads over mine. Reflexively, I snatch my hand away.
“I’m kidding,” he says. “I don’t want your money.”
Which means I’m right about what he does want.
He adds, “Just IM me. Okay?”
I really want the laptop. ok I lie.
He sets the rejected computers on the bench beside him—the other side of him—pulls a paperback from his pocket and scoots closer. DON’T. I stick him in the arm with my pen.
“Ouch,” he goes, but scoots away. “Stab me, why don’t you?”
My pleasure.
He rubs his arm. “I didn’t know if you had the next book in the series, so I got it. Thought I’d start at the end and work backward.” He opens the back cover of his book.
I recognize it. Desire in the Mine.
He settles in to read.
Now I can’t read. He’s
. . . unnerving.
I sit there faking it, with a rat snarling at me.
“Amazing,” he says. “Compelling. Intriguing. What I don’t understand is what Charles is getting out of this relationship. Maggie Louise is a slut.”
No, she’s not! I shoot him a fiery glare, which he deflects with the book in front of his face.
Okay, she is. But she gets what she wants in the end.
“Do you know the girl in your school with the long black hair and bangs?” he asks.
Does he mean JenniferJessica?
“She has a blue streak down one side.”
JenniferJessica.
He goes, “She reminds me of Maggie Louise.”
What? I shift to look at him, but he’s reading intently, smiling.
She’s nothing like Maggie Louise. How well does he know JenniferJessica? I want to tell him, She’s not your type. How do I know what type he is? What boy wouldn’t desire someone like JenniferJessica?
He’s yanking my chain. I hate him.
Kim arrives. I pack my gear and head for the car. This time he doesn’t follow. Good.
“What’s in your bag?” Kim asks as I meld with the bucket seat and latch my seat belt. “Can I see?” She extends her hand.
I must clutch my bag tighter because Kim retracts her arm. “That’s okay. I trust you.”
She’ll check it later.
As we’re driving away, I watch Santana loping up the steps to the house next door. The computers are slung under his arm and Hervé is riding his shoulder.
“Is that where he lives?” Kim asks.
He turns and waves.
I want to wave back, but . . . I catch myself.
We slow for a yellow light and I don’t know why, but I turn my torso and look back to see if he’s still there.
Kim says, “You like him. I can tell.”
I shut down. You can’t tell anything.
The little laptop, the Mini Me, is great. My fingers adjust to the stiff keyboard right away.
The Internet connection is automatic. I wonder if Chip can detect a new user or an added piece of hardware. At this point, I don’t really care. He can’t get into Through-the-Light.
I lie in bed and log on.
Three J_Doe’s have replied to my last Final Forum entry. People have been verbally and physically abused. Fag is a standard. Dyke, slut, homo, whore, Arab. That’s a new one. One girl was called . . . I don’t even want to say it. By her mother, no less.
By the Time You Read This, I'll Be Dead Page 7
