Suicide Silence

My stomach twisted in a sick knot of fear, anger, and lonliness. As I followed them, they walked faster. I can't remember what I said, though I know I was pleading them to make conversation with me, to tell me what I'd done.

Not a word was uttered from their half-smirking, half-irritated lips. Like they got pleasure from hearing me grovel.

The last three people keeping me alive were the three people who were now killing me.

I checked my wrist and was painfully aware of the scar that still lined my skin. They knew as well as I did that I'd rather die than tell my parents about that.

I walked away; quit following them, and willed myself to not to cry.

As class resumed, I tried to plead with them to tell me what I'd done to cause this again. Not a word. My response came in the form of a note.

"They're all so annoying." Does that sound familiar?

And I choked on the sob that followed the knowledge that that did, indeed, sound familiar.

__________

I turned down my food, playing sick, and walked into the post-winter dreariness of March. My automatic instinct was to go to the railroad tracks. I'd lay there and wait for the train, the one that sometimes never came.

The metal of the tracks was ice cold against my neck, but soon I numbed and couldn't feel a thing. Even the animals seemed to know of my mistake and refused to give me anything to listen to as I waited.

Minutes passed that felt like days; hours passed that felt like weeks. My ears rang from the lack of sound and my chest felt thick with regret.

For the first time I'd gotten what I wanted. I wanted to die and I wanted to do it with nobody left that would love me; one more suicide forgotten by the masses with no regrets left behind.

Night fell and the train still hadn't come. I didn't move until I cried out the last of my hope.

I got inside and locked myself in the bathroom with a pair of scissors and a near-empty bottle of pills. I used the scissors to make another incision on my leg and the pills to numb the pain and bring me, hopefully, death.

__________

The next morning, I woke up. The pills didn't kill me, but their wordless hatred did. Another day spent alone, despite the company of old acquaintances.

As I watched them laugh, the last of my pity and trust shriveled up and was expelled through glares of my own.

And in two months, when I planned to kill myself, I'd be nothing more than a fleeting memory of theirs.