Suicide Notes

part of me thought that if I just kept crying none of it would be real. Sadie
wouldn’t be dead. The stuff with Rankin would never have happened. I
wouldn’t be crazy.
But she is. And it did. And I am.

---

Day 35
So about the whole trying-to-kill-myself thing. I guess there’s no reason not
to talk about it now. It’s not like things can get any worse.
I did it on New Year’s Eve. I had the best idea, too. I wanted to get
drunk along with all the people in Times Square, then do it as the ball fell.
You know, slip away with the old year into wherever it goes when it’s used
up and we throw it away. So maybe it’s a little dramatic, but hey, you’ve got
to appreciate the thought.
And, no, I didn’t actually do it in Times Square. That would just be too
weird. I did it at home. In my bedroom. Watching it all on TV.
The whiskey was a good start. I got the idea from Dylan Thomas. He’s
this poet who drank twenty-one straight whiskeys at The White Horse
Tavern in New York and then died on the spot from alcohol poisoning. I’ve
always wanted to hear the bartender’s side of the story. What was it like
watching this guy drink himself out of here? How did it feel handing him
number twenty-one and watching his face crumple up before he fell off the
stool? And did he already have number twenty-two poured, waiting for that
big fat tip, and then have to drink it himself after whoever came took the
body away?
So I drank some whiskey. I don’t see how Dylan Thomas choked down
twenty-one glasses of the stuff. I could barely drink three. But that was
enough. It made everything seem okay somehow, like killing myself was
the best idea I’d ever had. I wasn’t afraid.
Cutting myself felt so good. It was sweet the way the razor opened up
the skin and this red line appeared, like I was pulling a piece of thread out
of my wrist. The blood came really slowly, not in some spastic blast like I
thought it would. It didn’t even really feel like my arm. It was like I was
watching someone else’s arm in a movie. I kept thinking how great the
camera angle was and wishing I had some popcorn.
The people on television were counting down the seconds until the new
year. What a bunch of morons they all were, acting excited to have another
whole year, but having to get trashed so they wouldn’t think about how they

---

were going to screw it up again like they had all the other years. Everyone
was looking up at the top of the building as though Jesus Christ himself had
appeared and was tossing out chocolate-covered salvation, like just because
some crazy glitter ball was falling on their heads it gave them another
chance to be happy. Only I could tell them it never changed, that no matter
how many glitter balls fell in New York City, the year would still suck and
their lives would still be screwed up and everything would still turn out
wrong.
“Use the razor!” I shouted at the television. “Use the razor!” But none
of them did. Just me.
That’s when I did the other wrist, and that was even better because I
knew—knew what it would feel like, knew what would happen. Man, did it
feel good, like slicing open the ribbon on a Christmas present you’ve been
staring at under the tree for a month and been dying to open. Then it’s
finally time to open it, and you just kind of hold your breath while you rip
off the paper, hoping that what’s inside will be what you want it to be. And
for once, it was.
Afterward I just lay there watching everyone kiss while I died, thinking
how cool it was to be on my bedroom floor bleeding while everyone in
America celebrated the end of my life and the idiot hosting the countdown
smiled his goofy fake smile on the TV like the Angel of Death doing a
toothpaste commercial. There was none of that tunnel-of-light crap either.
No angels waiting to lead me over. It was just dark and quiet.
That’s when I woke up and saw my parents bending over me. At first I
thought I was dreaming. My mother still had on all her makeup and her