Leah Petersen

This piece is part of the #SuicideNotes project and was originally written by Richard B. Wood as part of a #5MinuteFiction challenge. He generously offered it to me for this project. I’ve tweaked it so that it fits the style of the other Notes, but the original story is Richard’s.

This is the end. I’ve got it right, I think.

I looked into this.

I made the decision and I did the research into how to get it done right.

I’m such a pussy, ‘cause I really don’t want to feel it.

There’s sleeping pills. But convulsions and vomiting… no thanks.

Hanging myself. Sounds painful…besides shitting myself while gasping for that last breath is too disgusting for words.

Drowning myself…well I don’t have the courage for that one either. Sucking in water in a blind panic for my last minute of life? No.

There were some exotic concoctions of drugs I could use…a la Jack Kevorkian…but I can’t get those without a medical license.

So, putting a high caliber pistol into my mouth and pulling the trigger is the ‘best way to go.’

I suppose there is such a thing. The best way to kill yourself.

And I got this pretty .357 Magnum. Silver. Like something from the old west. Seven days to get it. But what’s seven days to a law abiding no-chance taking pussy like me?

I tried to kiss Jimmy goodbye but he wanted to play lightsabers before bed. So I did. Then I kissed him and tucked him in.

Anna wanted me to tell her a story. The stories I always make up for her. It’s the only creative thing I’ve ever done in my life. I went on and on about a princess and a dragon, and my little girl clapped and laughed and squealed in all the right places. I kissed her for the last time.

I told Vickie I was going out.

Fuck you. That was her goodbye.

I don’t blame her.

I’ve always loved this park.

I’ve been here an hour now and still crying like the pussy I am.

I can’t do this. My babies will be devastated. But tomorrow, my soon-to-be-ex-wife and I were gonna tell the kids about the divorce. I can’t bear to think of the way they’ll…I just can’t face it.

She’ll get them anyway. After what I’ve done, I’ll be lucky to get even visitation rights.

Crying like a pussy.

I made this decision already. I’d rather remember them as I last saw them. Happy, playful and full of love for their dad.

Their smiles were the last good thing I saw.

Come to papa, .357.

*****

James Michael Hanover, 42, of Masonboro, died January 2, 2010.

He was born August 22, 1967, a son of the late Abraham Herman Hanover and Tina Fay Hanover, who survives.

He is survived by his wife, Victoria Megan Hanover; a son and a daughter, James Michael Hanover, Jr. and Anna Leigh Hanover; and a sister, Julie Melissa Carter.

Services will be held at St. Peter Catholic Church.

It’s HERE!

Richard B. Wood from over at Arcana Chronicles and author of the pre-published The Prodigal’s Foole–a book I’ve read and you haven’t–asked to interview me in his very first The Word Count podcast.

Well, I let him. I wasn’t sure what to expect but it was tons of fun and the finished product is just great. I enjoyed listening to Emmett Spain, the other interviewee. It’s well worth the listen.

You can catch the ‘cast from the RSS feed, or directly off of iTunes. Make sure you rate it and comment on it.

Thanks, Richard.

They hate me. God hates me. I hate me.

And whatever they say, I can’t help it. I don’t want to be gay. Don’t they think I would change if I could? Then everyone wouldn’t hate me. Then they might love me. Mom, and Dad. Don’t they think I want them to love me?

But they won’t. Or they can’t.

But I can’t help it. I can’t!

I’ve tried. I did, really I’ve tried. Over and over. I even tried to kiss Amy. She’s been my best friend forever and she says she always knew I was gay. But she wanted to help me if I hated it that much.

But it just wasn’t… it just wasn’t.

She writes me. At this place they sent me to. Mom and dad write me too. Sounding happier than they ever were when they talked to me at home. I guess the councilors told them I’m doing well. Meaning I’m learning not to be gay.

I guess that means they haven’t found out about Roger yet.

I wonder if his parents are getting those reports too. That he won’t be gay when they send him home. He puts on a good show. Of course, he’s older than me. More practice.

They must be hearing that from the councilors. Because he’s going home. Tomorrow. Really early in the morning. So he shouldn’t hear about me, before he goes. Probably not after either. He’ll just think I didn’t write him. Or couldn’t.

Well, I won’t be able to, will I?

I hear that some kids’ parents don’t care. Will’s got a friend in Massachusetts. He says they’re happy that he’s gay.

I don’t need my parents to be happy. Just to still care about me even if I was such a horrible thing.

Will says I could just wait. Just play the game and get out of here and when I’m eighteen move somewhere like Massachusetts or New Hampshire or Canada.

I just wish I could. But my parents would hate me. And I’d go to hell. I’ll probably go to hell anyway.

That’s what I’m really scared of. My parents will probably be happy, or something. They won’t have a gay son anymore. God will probably forgive them, or whatever. For not having something like me in their lives anymore.

I hate them. Hate them all.

I hate them.

I guess if I’m some horrible sin then I get to hate them. Not like I’m going to get to heaven anyway. So what does it matter?

I’m going to hell. Tonight.

Oh shit. I’m so scared.

But what difference does it make? If I go now or in whatever-many years.

I can’t NOT be gay. I can’t!

Oh, God. I’m so sorry. Please forgive me. Why am I like this? I try. I really do. Don’t you see that? Why won’t you help me? It just doesn’t work! I… I swear I tried not to love him. I really did. I didn’t even have sex with him. Not really.

But I wanted to. Oh, God, I’m so sorry. But I wanted to. I still do. And if I leave here, I’ll want to still. It doesn’t help. What they say and what they do. I try. I pretend and I want it to not be pretending. I want to mean it. I really do. Why won’t you help me mean it? What did I do wrong? I tried.

But you don’t help. So I guess that’s it, right? You’re telling me.

OK.

It’s not like I didn’t know. I just… I wished, you know? I wanted to be OK. I wanted… but you said no, I guess. ‘Cause nothing changed. I still want him. Not just him, which might mean something, I think. But there’s Rory who is… It doesn’t matter. All it means it that I’m not fixed. And I never will be. And that means something.

You’re telling me something.

You’re telling me this.

I guess that’s why you gave me this way out. The razors they gave me last week. ‘Cause I need to shave now. I guess they didn’t think that I could take this thing apart, to get the razors out of the cartridge. They’ll probably do something about the razors. After this. For the other boys.

Which is too bad, really. What will they have to do?

Not like we can be fixed. You’d think the councilors here would know that.

I’m sorry God. Please forgive me. For this. For all of it. I tried. I really did.

Ouch!

Oh shit, I hope they didn’t hear that. Oh God, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cuss. It just hurt and…

Thank you. Thank you for helping me not yell that time. I know you don’t like me. But that’s something, right? I mean, if I do this, so I’m not alive anymore, doesn’t that mean I’m not gay anymore either? And maybe I don’t have to go to hell? I’m trying. Really I am. Doesn’t this count for something?

Oh, please. Please let it count for something. I’m so scared. I want to call someone. I don’t want to die. Really I don’t. Please help me. If someone comes now, to save me, can’t you do that and make me not gay? ‘Cause I tried. See? I’m trying. Can’t that count for something?

Oh, no.

Oh, no.

I don’t want to die.

Please.

I don’t I don’t I don’t I don’t I don’t I

Jason Andrew Davis, 14, of Mesquite, died February 17, 2010 in Bartlett, TN.

He was born October 12, 1995, a son of Henry James and Sarah Ann Davis.

He is survived by his parents.

Services were held at Abundant Life Pentecostal Church, in Mesquite. Burial followed at Memorial Cemetery.

This piece is part of the #SuicideNotes project.

I wish I could do it, but I can’t.

I try, really I do. And I’d do it if I could. Really, I would. I just can’t.

It’s not really their fault. They’ve really tried. All the classes and stuff. They want me to be the best. They’re the best, they’re geniuses. They could do anything. They say they’re not sorry they had me, but they have to be now, right?

I mean, they probably weren’t sorry when they thought they were going to have a kid who would be all they wanted. Smart and pretty and who would do all the amazing things they do.

It’s not like they didn’t try. They pay a lot for my school, I know they do. And all the other stuff. They can’t help it that I’m just a worthless loser who will never be the daughter they should have gotten.

I mean, look how awful I was at the violin. All the kids play something like that. And it all sounds the same to me, even when they’re all cringing. I’d do it right if I could. Honest.

I can write. But that’s not, you know, what they want. You can’t write in the talent show for the other parents to clap for. And that’s so important. The other parents and the violin. That’s important.

And calculus. It’s not like I flunked. It was just a B. Well, a B-. Mr. Hawes is seriously tough! Only four kids got better grades than I did. And they’re all seniors! The other junior in AP Calculus got a D. But, you know, fifth isn’t good enough.

I get that. They never came in fifth. Fifth isn’t up to the standard they set. The kind of kid they deserve wouldn’t come in fifth in the class.

Timmy says all that stuff that my parents want doesn’t matter. But I can’t even go out with Timmy anyway, because of the B-. And he’s wrong. Maybe it’s OK for him. If his parents can be OK with whatever he does. He acts like it doesn’t matter. But can’t he see that it doesn’t stop after high school? How could I live a whole life of failing them over and over? They try so hard!

Yeah there are kids whose parents would be cool with them being auto mechanics or something. Mine wouldn’t, and they shouldn’t. They’re brilliant. And they’ve worked so hard to be where they are and they’ve worked so hard with me. It’s not OK for me to be a mechanic. I don’t know anything about cars anyway.

You know, when I’m gone, they can go to Switzerland, and mom can do that research project they tried to recruit her for. That’s important. But they’re stuck with a crappy daughter and trying to make it work somehow for me not to totally screw up everything for them. And they figure staying here for me, in this school, will somehow make it work. But I just can’t do it.

I wish I could.

So this will work out for them. They won’t be saddled with me anymore. I guess it will suck for them not to have a kid to be proud of. But they don’t have one now and that’s my fault. The least I can do is fix that, right?

And if they go to Switzerland, no one will even know they had a failure of a daughter and they’ll be OK. They can sponsor some genius kid and, that’s something they could do. Something that works for them. Not like me.

It’ll be better this way. I won’t disappoint them anymore. Wouldn’t it be cool if they were proud of me for this? You know, setting a goal and not stopping until you achieve it? And accepting nothing but the best? Well, I don’t know what the best is when it comes to something like this, but at least I’ll accomplish something for once.

No more Bs. Or things I can’t get right. Or programs I won’t qualify for. Or careers I know I won’t be able to do. No more letting them down.

Maybe they’ll be proud of me this time. For getting it right.

God it stinks in here. But I guess it’s supposed to. I mean, car exhaust stinks. That’s how this works. I even understand the chemistry of this. The carbon monoxide filling the garage and too little oxygen and…

And I’m not giving up. This isn’t physics, which I didn’t understand, or the violin that I couldn’t play, and I can do this as well as anyone.

As well as I should.

Ugh. Oh I hate that smell. My head hurts.

cough

Oh God, it’ll be over soon, right? Please, I don’t want to… I’m scared.

cough

Please, let it be over soon. I don’t want to screw this up…

and they’d find out…

and it would just be one more thing and I just can’t…

cough

I can’t…

I ‘d just be…

cough

and that’s not…

and

*****

Renee Rebecca Ross, 17, of Boston, died March 25, 2010 at home.

She was born October 2, 1992, a daughter of Pierre David and Cathy Holmes Harris.

Renee attended the Bent Ridge Academy and enjoyed writing and volleyball. She was a much loved daughter.

Survivors include her parents, paternal grandparents David Paul and Linda Jane Harris; maternal  grandparents, James Michael and Linda Britt Cartwright; and many family members and friends.

Services will be held at Heath Memorial Home.

This piece is part of the #SuicideNotes project.

One

Two

Three

pills. Thirty more pills. Thirty more days. One month. One more month of life, they think. Disappearing one by one into the water.

Not for me.

She asked me to give it three months, the pills and the therapy. And I did. For her. I extended my life by three miserable months because I love her. Chemotherapy for depression. Except this one’s terminal.

It was for her. So when I’m gone she’ll know that she tried. She’ll know she had those months, that time, when I, at least, knew, and she feared, that they were our last.

There are memories there. So many things we did, most of them I don’t even remember. But there were weekend trips and there were lunches and there were nights that I stayed over, in my old bedroom with the black walls that she’d let me paint that color–of both everything and nothing, too much and too little–and hadn’t changed it because it was still my room and I asked her not to.

She won’t paint it when I’m gone, either. It will stay there, in her home, upstairs at the end of the hallway with the window overlooking the tree where Dad carved his initials and hers and mine. I wish he was still alive. For her. So she’d have someone, when I’m gone.

And I will be gone. Soon. As inevitable as the heart attack that took Dad seven years ago.

Nine

Ten

Eleven

pills in the water, swirling in the turbulence from the water pouring from the spigot and tainting the water a chilly blue. Too baby-blue to be really symbolic, but that doesn’t matter. The water will be a different color soon enough. The color of blood.

My blood.

She wanted more time, and I don’t blame her. After tonight she’ll be truly alone and that’s not fair. She doesn’t deserve that. But it can’t be helped.

She would ask for thirty more days, if she knew, but I don’t have thirty days to give her. I don’t have thirty hours. Not anymore. Those pills, these pills, the

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

pills didn’t help. No more than the ones before. Or the ones before that. Or the ones before that.

Sometimes that happens, and it’s no one’s fault. Sometimes an athlete dies on the field, and sometimes the kid dies of leukemia and sometimes the father has a fatal heart attack that no one expects and sometimes your daughter dies of the lack of the need for life.

No. That’s not right. Of exhaustion. Drained of the ability to sustain life. To want life. To live at all.

And it’s not living anyway. What I’ve been doing for all this time, since, since forever I guess. I think it was always like this, one way or another.

I know she doesn’t want to believe that. But I hope she understands. When it’s done. Mothers lose kids all the time. And it’s not their fault. This isn’t her fault either.

I hope she understands.

Twenty-seven

Twenty-eight

Twenty-nine

Thirty

This water is too hot, but maybe that’s OK. I haven’t felt in so long, I can stand this, this burning, this need to pull my foot out, this… No. I do want to burn. It’s right somehow. Anyone else, planning to live past this moment, would pull away, but I won’t. Because it’s right this way.

I got used to the temperature fast enough, didn’t I? Odd how easy that was. But I’m good at the awful and the painful. It’s what I do. It’s who I am. It’s how I’ll die.

It’s a beautiful razor. I’m glad I took the time to find a good one. Oh, the water’s rather blue from those pills, isn’t it? And the blood will make it purple. That’s almost funny. A color I would have detested. Almost funny if I could laugh. But I haven’t in so long, not really. I don’t even want to. Not now. This isn’t funny. Not funny at all. This is my death and the end of a somber and joyless life should be that way.

It’s not so hot anymore. Or maybe it is. Look how red my hand is. After being in the water. Look how red my hand is holding the razor. Exactly. Red. Blood. There it is, just under the surface, begging for release.

I know. Yes. Exactly.

hiss

Oh, that… no, it doesn’t hurt. That’s not pain that’s… sharp. It’s real and immediate and… it’s almost alive. Odd, for an end. To find something of life in death.

Red. In the water. Like paint on a canvass.

hiss

Exactly. Yes. Look how long and how deep. As if my arm is laid open. My body laid open. My life laid open, and leaking into the water that’s not as hot as I thought it was. It’s not hot at all.

How beautiful. The bloom of red. The feeling.

How wonderful.

It’s wonderful. How did I not know how wonderful this would be? The feeling of it. The way it feels. My head feels clear. Light. I haven’t felt this way since… Have I ever felt this way? This… unshackled. This release.

sigh

It’s wonderful.

Oh, Mom. I wish you could know how wonderful this is.

It’s wonderful.

I’ve never felt… In twenty-four years I’ve never felt… How did I resist this for so long?

Is this what it feels like for others? Who live? To live? To want to live and to do it?

No wonder they don’t understand.

If I could feel this way alive I would have lived. But I didn’t get that lot, did I? I get this now.

With my death.

It’s wonderful. It’s… Mom, it’s wonderful. Did you know? Can you feel it?

No, don’t cry. No. It’s wonderful. This… I’m floating. It’s wonderful, it’s

*****

Chloe Ann Mitchell died May 23, 2010 at her home in Ridgewood.

She was born April 16, 1986, a daughter of Robert Charles Mitchell, deceased, and Elizabeth Rowland Mitchell, who survives.

She was a beloved daughter and friend.

Funeral services will be held at Johnson Funeral Home.

In lieu of flowers, donations can be made to the National Foundation for Depressive Illness, P.O. Box 2257 New York, NY 10116.