Three Weeks Left

“Suicide Note: 10th Revision
Sorry Mom, and Dad. You know I love you.
I know that I have things to live for. My parents, my friends (HA), my family. Notice that these are all people, and none of them are me. I have to stop living for other people. You think suicide is selfish, what’s really selfish is people trying to guilt me into living through more years of misery for people who can, physically speaking, live without me.
Up until this point, my life has been in vain. I can think of no worse punishment than living a life completely ordinary. I’d get an average job, meet a regular boy (of course under society’s impression that all girls are needy and desperate to be loved), have a normal family, and die a usual death. I’m not going for ordinary, because no one cares about ordinary. People want unconventional lives, whether they be tragic or not. I’m shooting for a tragic, but extraordinary, death, since my life can’t meet these requirements.
I’d never be able to settle down. Boys are afraid of me, and until now, I’ve never quite understood why. Now I know what it is. Boys live their entire lives being given whatever they want and having everybody bend over backwards to suit their needs. As they grow older, they are taught that someday, a girl will fly into his arms with an unflinching submissiveness and eternal obedience and adoration towards him. Consider this: the boy meets a girl he likes, and he’s waiting for her to confess her undying love and compliance to him. He’s waiting, and it doesn’t happen. He’s figuring she’s just shy (I could complain about how we think anxiety and similar health disorders are just a cute and desirable quirk, but I won’t), so he continues to wait. He starts off with the expectancy and enthusiasm like that of a puppy waiting for the return of his owner who had left and never returned. Like the dog, his tail falls, and his jaw droops. His eyelids grow heavy, and his feet sore from standing. He then, tail tucked between his legs, gives in.
Do you want to know why? Because this girl doesn’t want or need any man’s approval. And to men, who are taught the complete opposite, it’s terrifying, and disappointing. Some men grow resentful and rape. Others get discouraged and give up. Either way, they won’t stay with that girl, because they need to be in a position of power, and this is just a plain scenario where that won’t happen.
Sorry, I know I’m going all over the place. My thoughts are gems that simply cannot be withheld by the demanding law of organization and structure. They cannot be classified, cannot be restrained by labels.
No, this isn’t solely because of It. Yes, that was admittedly more than a setback in my life, but it didn’t hold any power over my life, so it shouldn’t have any authority towards my death.
I don’t even want to think about my funeral, but one single thing has to be addressed: DON’T INVITE MY SCHOOLMATES. They didn’t like me when I was alive, so they shouldn’t pretend to like me when I’m gone.
I’m really sorry things had to go this way.”
My finger hovers over the print button. I could always just off myself now, spare myself some time and more excruciating anticipation. But, I decide not to, for I have a very special date picked. I click save instead, and close my lap top, setting it on my night stand.
I stare up at my ceiling. It’s been almost two years since It happened. It’s hard to believe. And yet, I still carry the scars, and people still look at me, people who hardly know me, like I’m literally on the brink of dying. Little do they know how close to my demise I actually am.
Three more weeks. That’s all. I tell myself this over and over as I get myself up for school the next morning, stepping into my uniform. I fix my hair in the car, combing my fingers through the dark pixie cut.
“So… Reagen….” Mother starts tentatively.
“I have a test first period, so I have to hurry,” I lie, studying my cuticles. It’s not like they’re really that interesting, but I have a gut feeling that she’s going to bring It up.
“Honey, just remember, that’s all behind you. Yes, he did a horrible, horrible thing but…..” Mother’s voice wavers. “It doesn’t change who you are.”
Great, another sentimental speech about how It doesn’t have to control my life. If one more person tells me that it can only rule me if I let it, I will scream. I want to go off on my mom, telling her that I don’t need sympathy. I’m tired of it. But instead, I just tell,
“Thanks, mom. I love you”, because I’m aware of the fact that she’s just trying to help the best that she can.
“Love you too, Reagen,” Mother responds, tearing up as she waves goodbye to me. She always cries when we talk about It.
I walk into the school, gripping the straps of my backpack so tightly that my knuckles slowly become albicant. Just being inside this Hellhole churns my stomach. Years of being teased, ignored, and betrayed all resonate through my mind. I still can’t go past the locker rooms without it sending shivers down my spine.
I make my way through halls congested with kids, all with better clothes, better social lives, and, finally, better lives than me. I get, count, only three looks of pity, and four of judgment. I make it to Spanish , to see that the teacher isn’t there yet. Only one or two kids are in the room, one a girl chipmunk cheeked girl quietly reading, her eyes sealed to the book, and another is a boy with a fair complexion who stares out the window with languish.
I sigh as I cross the room, sitting at my spot in front of the room. You think that after It, teachers would maybe take pity on me, assign me the helpless victim role, and assume that I’m innocent and inspiring enough to sit in the back row. But no, I remain in the front row. The Spanish teacher is a burly man known as being a bit overly orthodox, so I’m assuming he doubts that I would be able to keep my legs shut if he put me in the back.
Kaitlin Levine enters the room, blond hair parted meticulously down the center. She’s wearing about two pounds of makeup as usual. Girls, and boys, for that matter, wear makeup if you want to, but just please make sure it looks good. Oh, Kaitlin’s always looks perfect. Her eyeliner never smears, lip stain never dries, and her cover up never rubs off. It’s just a little much for my taste. She looks like a Barbie doll, and has the mind of one too, only thinking about shopping, boys, and animals.
As she strides confidently down the aisle, wedges clapping hard against the wooden floor, a single word slithers out of her mouth as she passes me.
“Slut.”
She sits just a few seats over with me. Under normal circumstances, I’d just let her be the bitch that she is and not retaliate. But today is not a normal circumstance. It’s T minus 2 weeks and 6 days until doomsday. So, being on the shit list of the most prominent girl in the school isn’t really a concern of mine anymore.
“You know, love has four letters, too,” I point out.
She curls her upper lip into a sneer, her delicate nose crinkling slightly at the bridge. “Excuse me, whore?”
I can sense that the other kids in the room are watching now. They’re kind of making me nervous, making me feel like I’m performing or something. But I decide to keep going, just to see the look on her snotty face when she realizes that the world, contrary to popular belief, does not resolve solely around her.
“Love. It’s four letters, just like the word slut. One word less than the letter whore. So, with your first insult, in the same amount of energy, you could’ve said love, rather than viciously spewing hate at me like the venomous bitch you are,” I reply. “You know, it’s not hard to show compassion.”
“You’re such a freak,” she scoffs, flipping her hair over her shoulder as she retrieves her trusty I Phone and begins to text someone who probably hates me as well.
I turn my head to the front of the room, noticing that the teacher has yet to arrive. Even she doesn’t want to be here.
I wonder if teachers dread school just as much as pupils do. For most students, they’re stressing over a test, or some assignment that they have yet to finish, and maybe even a certain class that they know they are bound to fail.
But teachers, they face not only other staff members, but the students. Students can be downright cruel, especially to any figure of authority. I’m sure that some “bad boy” who thinks he’s hot shit will talk back to the teacher and get the class to laugh. I wonder if teachers ever go home and just cry over how they’re treated. I have an immense guilt towards them; the kind where you’ve done nothing wrong, but you still feel at fault.
Not only that, but they probably face losing their job at least once in their career. Most times, it’s likely just that some students who don’t listen in class blame their educator rather than themselves. What bothers me most that if one student decided to get a teacher fired, they probably could. Whether it be through lies or blackmail, I’m sure that if they really applied themselves to the task of getting them to lose their job, they definitely would be able to.
When I come to from my thoughts, I notice that the classroom is full, and I’m flanked on either side by a boy who is probably fantasizing about grabbing our teacher, Ms. Daniels, by the wrists and fucking her over the desk.
She’s young, and pretty, with dark hair and fair skin. Her dress sense always seems like it was pulled off a mannequin minutes before, and her smile is always present. She has a line of freckles along her cheekbone that I’m sure all of the straight boys and gay girls would just love to suck on.
I feel bad for her, like the staff doesn’t quite treat her the same because of her age. She’ll make an attempt to talk to them outside in the hall, coffee cups clutched tightly in fists, and they just kind of brush her off like she’s some annoying little moth. She’s one of the smartest people I know, and that’s coming from a pretentiously avid reader and researcher, so it says a lot.
When class is over and the social kids swing their backpacks over their shoulder and stampede towards the door, while the other, more reserved students tuck their books to their chest and slowly shuffle away, Ms. Daniels calls me to her desk.
I collect my things and walk up, my steps cautious so as not to bump into any tables or chairs. “You wanted me?”
She leans forward, telling, “I’m worried about you, Reagen.”
“Me too, everyone is,” I reply. “But I assure you, your concern, while considerate, is not necessary, for I am perfectly fine, thank you, better than I’ve ever been, and at the very pinnacle of my high school career, better than I ever will be.”
“Reagen,” she responds. She sets herself back in her chair, telling, “I’ve been noticing that you, a straight A student, have suddenly stopped trying in here. You didn’t do too hot on your last test. And, you look sad, to be quite honest.”
“I’m fine,” I lie, stumbling over myself as I back up. “I’m great, honest. You don’t have to worry, you’re wasting your worries, use them on the starving HIV infected children in Africa, not on a privileged, white girl.”
“Take care of yourself, Reagen. And let me know if you need anything, okay?” Ms. Daniels orders.
“I will, I promise,” I assure. I’m heading towards the door when Ms. Daniels calls,
“Wait!”
I pivot, asking, “Yes?”
“Let me give you my number. Just… promise, if you really need something, you’ll call,” Ms. Daniels instructs.
I snatch the paper, half lying as I agree, “Fine.” I leave with the strip of paper clutched tightly in my fist, the ink smearing onto my palm.