My fingers brush the smooth surface.
It’s frightening, like the world. But there’s a difference: the difference is that I can grasp the gun; it’s so easy that it’s disgusting. The world, however, isn’t easy to grasp.
I take a shaky breath and choke.
They say killing yourself is the easy way out—but I don’t think it is. It takes courage and so many putrid and hateful thoughts; those thoughts keep you thinking, they keep you contemplating on whether or not you should actually die, and that’s why a lot of people back out at the last minute. They think about their lives; they think about all the people they will hurt, and they think about all the things they just haven’t done yet.
I’m afraid, but I don’t care about the things I haven’t done yet. I just don’t care.
I don’t care that I will die a virgin, I don’t care that I will die without kissing a boy, or that I haven’t snuck out of the house in the middle of the night to go party. I don’t care that I won’t graduate, and I don’t care that I will die without knowing what the hell I’m going to do in the future; I just don’t want it—I don’t want my future, whatever it is. I’ll admit, I’m afraid of it. I’m afraid there will be no one there because I just don’t care.
And I don’t care that I will die without knowing what love is, if it exists. How am I supposed to believe in something that I’ve never felt?
I lean back against the wall, my fingers still resting against the cold of the metal. It was hiding in a shoebox at the top of my parent’s closet. I remember my dad mentioning that we had a couple guns hidden away in the house for protection, but he never told me where he hid them. It was just a lucky guess. Closets are for hiding just about anything—Christmas presents, dirty clothes, The Boogeyman, skeletons, homosexuals . . .
Alright, that last one was just a joke, but you know what I mean. People hide anything and everything in their closets, so that’s why I felt like one of those guns would be there.
And I was right. Loaded and everything, like I was meant to take it for myself.
I don’t know how to handle the world. I think a lot of people don’t know how to, but they continue on into the unknown and get hurt for it.
But I’d like to venture into a different unknown.
The gun’s resting in my palm and I curl my finger around the trigger; it isn’t pointed at my head, not yet. I swallow hard and think about taking a practice shot, but then I think about how pissed my parents would be if there were a bullet hole in the drywall.
My shoulders slump.
Besides, if I make the shot, it’ll scare me. I know that it’ll be enough to keep me from doing this. It’ll be the thing that keeps me from putting the bullet in my head.
I furrow my eyebrows.
My parents won’t like the blood spattered along the wall either.
I sigh, pick myself up, and take the gun into my own room. It won’t matter in there; it’s my room, and if I’m dead, there’s no use for it. Unless maybe they turn it into a workout room. Until then, it’s mine, and I get to choose whether or not I spatter my blood along it.
I settle myself against the wall adjacent to my closet. There isn’t much hiding in there; I’ve never been much of a secretive person, at least not with materialistic items. Nothing to hide there. What I really have—the things that I really hide—are my thoughts. If there’s anything I have an abundance of, it’s definitely my thoughts. While some girls may need a million closets just to store away all their shoes and clothes, I need a million closets to store away all my thoughts because it’s all I really have; it’s all I can hide. It’s all I really value. Everything else, I just don’t care about.
Like I’ve said, I just don’t care about much, and a lot of my time is spent wondering why I don’t.
It’s kind of a vicious cycle, actually. Thinking about why I don’t gets me nowhere, but I have no motivation to do anything about it.
I take in a breath and then take in all of my surroundings one last time.
I raise the gun.
I raise it because I can’t grow up. I can’t adapt.
I can’t stand knowing that I won’t fit in, that I will feel in over my head.
That I will feel like I can’t gain anything from living here.
Not if I have to grow up.
My finger teases the trigger. I count back from ten, and then recount from thirty. I feel my body tense up each time I reach zero, but then I just go back to counting down from a larger number.
C’mon, I think. You’re not this much of a coward.
My finger eases on the trigger again, but I can’t click it back—I won’t click it back.
Or maybe you are. You’re killing yourself, afterall, I think. You’re brave for doing this, yet such a coward. Funny how it works.
I’m stalling, but . . . there’s something else people say about suicide: Suicide is a permanent answer to temporary problems.
I sit here and wonder if what I’m going through is temporary or not. If anything, it’s kind of a lifestyle, what I’m going through is. I’ve faced depression before; I’ve considered suicide at my lowest low, but I’ve never attempted it, not like I am now. I wonder what happened. I battled my depression and realized that I was being an idiot, that there was more to life, and I just needed to open my eyes.
But now . . . I don’t know what happened. It’s like I’ve relapsed, like a drug addict who’s been clean for months, but then someone offered him the cocaine or the meth, or whatever the hell it is, and he just couldn’t help himself. He crashes and spirals down, and he reverts back to his out of touch state, craving more and more.
I don’t think I show the physical signs of being depressed. My clothes are normal, I don’t cut, and I don’t talk about death with anyone. The most I do is spend a lot of time by myself just thinking, just kind of wallowing, or doing absolutely nothing. I lay down and pretend I’m dead.
Most people reach out for help somehow, usually through their appearance.
I don’t though; not anymore, and I don’t know if this should scare me. If I don’t reach out, no one will ever notice. But that’s the thing—I guess I don’t want anyone to notice. Hell, it’s kind of late for that, I guess. The gun’s already in my hand.
I start counting down again with beads of sweat on my forehead.
I imagine myself propped against the wall like the child I am. Not yet eighteen, not yet an adult, but old enough to be trusted with some adult-like issues; like driving, planning for college, and getting a summer job, and eventually living off on my own. I picture my face—trying hard to be stern, trying hard to look so sure about this.
I think about what’s going to be waiting for me if I do this. Probably nothing, I would imagine. Just black—it’s nothing. Once you’re dead, it doesn’t matter. You don’t have to care about anything, not like you do when you’re alive, and I think I crave that.
I’ve lost friends over the years. Just stopped talking to them; I don’t know why either. I guess that’s a bit cowardly too, maybe even selfish. Can’t talk to your own friends because you just don’t care, or maybe you’re just too afraid to. Pathetic really.
I press the cold side of the gun against my feverish skin—my head’s swimming, and my heart is pounding in my ears. I used to care at one point. Actually, I wanted to talk to them before I died and all. To say my goodbyes and whatnot. Probably would have seemed odd though; saying goodbye to friends I haven’t talked to in awhile.
Then she opens the door, like she knew that I’d be here; it was hurried, like she knew I had a gun up to my head. Our eyes connect and then hers fall on the trigger that I’m holding.
I drop the gun, and I sob. It’s a much needed one too—one that I’ve been holding onto for years because I guess I just haven’t felt anything. You don’t really feel anything when you don’t care. You’re indifferent, so indecisive about everything that should matter.
You’re indecisive about everything, except about wanting to die. Really, that’s the only thing I was so definite about. I mean, sure, I was even indecisive about how to end my life—pills, gun, or hanging—but I managed to make a decision.
My only problem is that I couldn’t go through with it because somewhere in me, somewhere deep down, and buried beneath all the numbness and apathy, there was still an ounce of motivation, or whatever the hell’s the opposite of apathy, I guess. “Having a care” sounds weird.
She slides the gun across the room—it’s a quick motion, like she’s afraid of just touching it. I wasn’t afraid of holding it in my hand, or holding it against my temple. Holding it wasn’t the problem—pulling the trigger was the problem, and I wish it wasn’t. If I could have been able to pull the trigger the moment I put the gun up to my head, it would have been perfect. Everything would have ended, everything would have been done.
But then I saw that look on her face—horrified, full of terror, looking betrayed, but pleading me not to kill myself . . . it was scary. Now that I’ve seen that face I don’t know if I can do this again.
She holds me tightly, like I’ll slip away and go after the weapon, but I’m done. I slump against her and cry profusely; I let my body tremble and shake violently while she chimes in with her own sobs.
We must look ridiculous crying here on the floor of my room, and I try to think of the aftermath. I try to think about how it’ll be once our crying dies down and we’re just holding each other. What then? She asks how I’ve been doing? She waits until my parents come home and tells them what I just tried to do? Does she give me a speech about why I shouldn’t kill myself, or will we just sit here for hours?
I’m sure you’re tired of hearing quotes from me, but: Kurt Cobain quoted from Neil Young: “It’s better to burn out than to fade away.”
Ironically enough, Cobain killed himself. And that line was in his suicide letter.
Am I fading away by being so apathetic?
And I wonder, was that ever such a bad thing—just fading away? Because, after being so indecisive about everything, that sounds like a perfectly okay thing to do. In fact, I want to just fade away. Granted, that’s still me talking about death, and I said that the only thing I was sure about was wanting to die, but . . .
Maybe it’s a start. Maybe a start to caring again.