I made it to my seat working on autopilot. I am sitting in my last class ever: Spanish. Spanish is one of my better subjects. I paid attention, you never know, New York could have turned into Spain and I needed to know the language.
I have spent a lot of free time dreaming about living in Spain. I could teach English to the locals. I could work at the Mercado Central in Valencia. I could sell fresh fruit. I could haggle with Americans in a souvenir shop. I could have worked in a tapas bar.
I could get lost in a sea of 800,000 people.
I could get lost in myself.
I shake my head, freeing myself from that train of thought. Those doors are closed to me; it is too late to make any last ditch efforts. I have made up my mind. It is happening tonight; it has to be done.
I walk in the house through the side door. Goodbye side door, you were as nice as a door can be, except for that time you smashed my finger when I was little.
I smell dinner already cooking, and I can smell bacon. This means breakfast for dinner, Donnie’s favorite.
Donnie is at the table waiting to be served like some sort of king. I want to smack the imaginary crown off his head. Wordlessly, I sit down at the table. It makes perfect sense to sit and eat my last meal with him.
Donnie is my stepdad. My mom married him when I was seven. I don’t remember anyone asking me if I thought this was a good idea, but you can bet I wouldn’t have consented to our new family arrangement.
I am, of course, not seven anymore, but actually seventeen and things haven’t gotten any better for Donnie and me over the years. In fact, it has gotten much worse. I can’t stand to even be in the same room as him. I can’t even stand the sight of him.
Donnie is a tall man with a good amount of muscle. He has brown hair and usually sports a brown beard. He talks about women who want him (other than my mother) but I don’t know if it’s true or not. He is almost a decade younger than my mom and rubs it in her face all the time. I hate him with every fiber of my being. But, for some reason that my simple brain will never understand, my mom loves him.
“How was your day, Hunny?”
As if she even cares. Already, I can tell she has been drinking.
“Fine,” I don’t have the time or patience to have a conversation. I want to sit down and eat my last meal, and I would like to do it with as much peace as possible.
I knew this day would come; there wasn’t any other way. I just wasn’t sure how it would happen. I don’t have access to a gun and don’t think I could go through with it that way anyway. I don’t think I could drown myself. I wasn’t jumping off of a building. Cutting wasn’t the way to go either. In my mind that only left one option: pills.
The best I could hope for was gently going to sleep. Sure, I was basically taking the coward’s way out, but not all of us can be brave.
Once I decided on the method, I knew the way out. Buddy’s grandma has cancer, pancreatic cancer to be more specific. I went through her medicine cabinet in her bathroom. With all the medicine that was at her disposal it made me sad she was losing her battle. She has one of those days of the week containers, I looked under each letter, and they were all full to the brim. Surely she wouldn’t notice a few missing from each divider. I casually asked Buddy about his grandma’s health and what she was taking; he said almost everything was to manage pain.
I had pain to manage.
Surely this was only fair.
Back in my room, I pulled the bottle with all of its assorted content out. I spread the pills out on my bed, taking in my future. I hadn’t really thought past this point.
What should I do? Write a letter listing my grievances? No.
Maybe put on some music? No, I was sure my death shouldn’t be Dj’d.
I instead get up for a large glass of water.
I don’t want anyone to interrupt me, but my bedroom doesn’t have a lock on the door. I push my desk chair under the door handle to secure it. I hope that makes it stay put; I have only seen that done in the movies.
I sit down on my bed to begin the end.
The one thing I don’t count on is getting full from water. I start by taking the pills one at a time with a mouth full of water, much like I would do if I had a headache. After about a dozen of them I switch to taking more at a time.
Ironically, I am not that great at swallowing pills, but it’s better than the alternative ways of doing this.
I lay down on my bed waiting for things to go into effect. So far all I can feel is my stomach expanding from fullness. I lay in my bed for what feels like at least half an hour.
This is taking too long. I want it to be over with.
I get up to test out my weariness. I do a few jumping jacks which makes the water swish around in my stomach. I stand on one foot and put the other in front, lifting it off of my bedroom floor.
I feel nothing.
The only thing I am feeling is frantic. Now I really want this to end.
I want this to be over. The thought of another day makes me sick.
I leave my bedroom and make my way to the kitchen, checking to make sure the coast is clear. I look through the top cabinets for inspiration but come up short. I open one of the drawers and find our knives. I don’t have the guts to go down like that, at least not yet. I open the cabinet below the sink and hit the jackpot - bottles with warning labels. Bottles that tell you if you ingest even the smallest amount you are to immediately report to a hospital.
This is perfect.
I turn the labels so they face me. One promises no streaks left on glass. One will polish any wood surface leaving long lasting shine. One is just straight up bleach. My eye catches a label that interests me. It promises to disinfect me and to leave me smelling like pine and lemon.
I like lemon.
I grab the bottle with both hands. I decide to take this on a classy route and pour it in a glass cup.
At least when I die they can say I had lemony fresh breath.
I bring the cup to my face. Without another thought other than getting this done, I bring the glass to my lips and take a huge swallow.
My need for fresh air is immediate. My face, my throat, my insides are on fire. It hurts through my nose and under my ears. I lean over the sink waiting for it to come up. I open my mouth to try to take in deep breaths, and let me tell you, my mouth does not taste like lemon.
I feel like I am on fire.
I have turned into a dragon breathing fire. I switch the sink faucet on and put my mouth to the spout. I take in deep gulps of the unfiltered water to try to cool down the burning.
I remove myself from the sink. I still have at least one more go round of this. It suddenly doesn’t feel like I am taking the wimpy way out anymore.
I go for it, one more mouthful. It does not improve in taste. I have trouble swallowing and I let it sit in my mouth for a second until I can actually feel it start to burn the inside portion of my cheek.
The last swallow is horrible. My stomach is angry at me; every amount of me is alive in painful protest.
I retreat back to my bed before anyone sees me. I don’t replace the chair because now I can get away with this looking like a nap. I am a lazy teen who takes naps after school.
It isn’t long until I feel the combination of the things I have taken going into effect. I feel dizzy and buzzed, different from feeling drunk though.
The best thing I can do for myself now is to not think about the reasons I am doing this. I try to think of a happy thought. I let the happy thoughts wash over me.
I want to end this in happy thoughts.
I think about the time Buddy and I were around twelve and his dad set up a tent in their backyard. His dad ran an extension cord all the way to the tent and we watched Star Wars on a 9 inch black and white television. His mom brought us marshmallows and chocolate and we pretended they were smores even though they were cold. We didn’t care that we were really in his backyard eating cold smores - we were having the
best time. It was one of those times when you were in the moment and you thought to yourself that this is one of the moments I will always remember. When my hair is grey, I will remember this and smile back fondly. I wasn’t grey yet, far from it, but it was one of my favorite moments.
We tried telling ghost stories but since Buddy and I were always together we only knew the same ones. We didn’t have stories of our own. So we retold our favorite, like the one about the dead lumberjack who lived in the woods near Bayberry. In the night he would leave the woods and cut down children instead of trees. This one was particularly scary because the back of Buddy’s house faced the woods, and when it was time to sleep I was actually frightened. I had spooked myself enough to want to go back inside.
Buddy told me that everything was going to be okay and to further reassure me, he held my hand while I tried to fall asleep. I remember thinking that nothing could hurt me as long as he was here with me. I remember thinking that maybe we were too old for this, that if the other boys saw us now they would make fun of Buddy for being best friends with a girl, and if the other girls saw us they would laugh and start singing songs about k-i-s-s-i-n-g. But, it wasn’t like that with us. Buddy was the boy who held my hand when I needed him and nothing more. Then again, that seemed to be a lot.
I think about Buddy and his red hair, and how it’s getting redder as he gets older, but his freckles are getting lighter. He doesn’t look so much like a little boy anymore. He’s getting taller too, finally catching up with his brothers. I’m going to miss him turning into a man. I will only know him when his arms are scrawny. I won’t get to see him turn into everything I know he can be. I know he’s going to be a great father and husband one day.
I wish Buddy could hold my hand right now, not that he would. Buddy would think I was being a coward and maybe I am, who knows, but this feels right. As I get more and more tired this feels more and more right.
I am a little frightened again, much like that night in the tent. I am lying on my stomach and I reach over my head to hold my own hand. It feels stupid and not the least bit reassuring, but it seems right to be by myself in the end. I am at peace with my choice. I am finally at peace.
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