I thought I’d turned the page and left the aftermath behind But every single page I read you’re there between the lines Even when I close it you won’t leave my mind alone You’re not some distant memory I can deal with on my own
I heard your voice again when I was dreaming late last night The scene became familiar as we had another fight Seems all we ever talk about is how I’ve lost my mind I knew it was a dream because you started acting kind
I read the things you write and I just can’t believe my eyes "There’s no one here that loves me" is the biggest of your lies I try to say I love you but the words won’t leave my head You don’t know how it hurts me when you wish that you were dead
I thought my days were numbered and the number wasn’t much I reached out to some friends and now we’re finally back in touch I’m here to save myself but I would sooner give my life If I knew that it would save you from the sharp end of your knife. <i>3/7/11 - 3/8/11</i>
I don’t know what happens next in the story. If I had to guess, he probably goes back home, turns off his lights, realizes he’s got something to do tomorrow and goes to bed, vowing to return to the bridge once he’s finished his work.
It’s a stupid thing to think about, really. I’ve got much more pressing matters here in front of me - I’m about to commit suicide. But all I can think about are the lights in my house.
I shouldn’t have left them on when I left my house anyway, now that I think about it. It violates the routine I follow every time I leave: Shoes, keys, lights, door. Crap, I forgot my keys too. I won’t need ‘em where I’m going, though.
In a way, I guess it makes some sort of cosmic sense. I’ve been in this routine my entire life, and the day I decide to kill myself is the day I break this stupid cycle. As one cycle ends, so does the other.
The cycle’s what got me here in the first place. My life has been torture, and each day wears me down a little more. I think that’s how it goes with everyone’s life from time to time, and you either fight back or give up. I’ve given up.
This is no act of defiance, a last “fuck you” to the establishment. There will be no rioting, no outrage over my death, no questions raised about my life. I sincerely doubt anyone’s even gonna care, which may be why I’m so concerned about the lights still being on. I haven’t told anyone I’m out here, committing suicide, so it might be a long time before someone turns my lights off. I hope they don’t stay on so long that the electric company turns them off because I haven’t payed my bills - what would people think of me? They’d think I was irresponsible!
I could text somebody, tell them about the key under the mat and get them to turn the lights off. I’d do that, if I were sure they wouldn’t ask too many questions. “Are you expecting to be gone for a while?” “Where are you going?” “What aren’t you telling me, Craig?” “Where are you? I’m coming to get you. Stay there.”
Nah, too much of a hassle. My friends try to pry into my personal business way too often. The less I rely on them, the more successful I’ll be. Especially with committing suicide.
If it were just my friends, I’d still be happy. But it’s everything else, too. School, work, schoolwork, cooking, cleaning, writing, sports, everything. Everyone wants something from me, until I’m suddenly out of pieces that I still own. On top of all that, having friends who don’t really care for me has got me at the end of my rope.
Well, not literally at the end of my rope. I’m on a bridge about a mile from my house, staring into the freezing-cold water below. If I were hanging myself, I’d just get up and turn the goddamn lights off myself.