This piece is part of the #SuicideNotes project.
The writing is on the wall.
No, seriously, it’s on the wall. Got a black sharpie from my dad’s office. Or, it was dad’s office. Before he left. But shit, who cares about that. Right now, this moment? Mine.
Not like that’s the point. I don’t care, I mean, it’s never about me and it’s not like I’m some whiny bitch about that, all ‘look at me!’
Yeah, fuck that shit. I almost didn’t write anything. ‘Cause, you know, who’ll care? But this one’s about me. And if I want to write, I’ll write. If they don’t care, then, fuck it, they don’t care. Won’t be anything new, right?
I’m going to do it. Today. Any minute now.
There’s the rope, all tied up just right.
There’s the chair.
I’ve written what I want to say. I’m pretty sure. I haven’t signed it yet. That’s the last thing. But I don’t want to screw this up, so I’m waiting, just to make sure I haven’t forgotten anything. This has to be right. This is it.
I even checked my fucking spelling. Crazy, right? Since they’ll just probably paint over this anyway. Like, next week. But what do I care?
I didn’t write anything stupid. Like, about Penny, how she dumped me, or whatever. ‘Cause I didn’t care about her like I acted like I did. It’s not about Penny. I mean, she left me, and, that’s cool. I knew she would. It’s just, the way it works for me. Not like it’s ever going to change.
I didn’t call dad an asshole or mom a bitch, though he is, and so is she. Well, sometimes. I mean, their marriage shit. They really hated each other. Not like I wish they were still together or anything. You know, but they could make an effort to be less fucking awful to each other when they have to be around. Or, whatever. Shit, I don’t care.
I wonder if they’ll scream at each other at my funeral. Ha! That’d be perfect. I hope they do.
Yeah, so this isn’t about them. They did their thing, and, whatever. It’s what they did. What they do doesn’t affect me. I’m sixteen. I can handle it. And I did. That’s not what this is about.
I’ll check the rope, gotta make sure. It’s… thick. Kinda thicker than I thought it would be. Not like it looks in the movies. But it’s like it said on the internet. So this is the rope and I got it right. I’m not a fuck-up and I guess they’ll all know that when I get this right. I did my fucking research and everything. Take that Mrs. Hall and your fucking D is fucking History.
I’m sixteen and fifty-nine days. I like that. Not sixty. That’s like a milestone, one of those tens numbers. It means something to get to those and I’m so done with this. It means something to me not to get there.
It’s cold in here, which is good. For… I don’t know, but it’s good. This will be the way it’s supposed to be. Like nothing in my life has been. But this will be. And I swear that makes me feel like a fucking god or something. I’m not the only fuck-up in the world, but they’ll all just keep trying and keep fucking up and they’ll live fucking pathetic lives.
And I’m going to end it just right, just perfect, and that’s one thing they will have to say I didn’t fuck up. And then maybe they’ll be sorry.
Shit, I didn’t mean that. That sounds so whiny, that ‘they’ll be sorry’ shit. I mean, I don’t know, some of them might feel… I don’t know, something. I mean, mom will probably cry. That’s what you do when your kid dies, right. Even the fuck-ups. And, that kinda sucks. But I can’t help it. Not like she’ll actually miss me or anything. I mean, that’s like the one flaw in my plan, is, god knows what time she’ll come home tonight so I can’t say when she’ll come looking for me.
But, by then, that’ll be her fuck up, not mine. I’ll be past all fuck ups. Yeah. Yeah.
This is so right. So right.
Time to sign my name. Perfect. The perfect fuck-up’s illegible signature. Well they can complain about that too. I don’t fucking care.
I got one of the dining room chairs. Don’t want the swivelly one from my desk. No. Gotta be right.
Big thick rope. Yeah. No fucking this up.
Perfect. Perfect. And just kick.
Cory Jacob Williams, 16, died at home October 6, 2009.
He was born August 14, 1993, a son of Daniel Seth Williams and June Sara Taylor, who survive.
Funeral services will be held at Maxton Funeral Service Chapel with the burial immediately following.