Killing yourself is a complicated process. There is so much thought that goes into this sort of thing. First of all, the means of doing so has to be decided on. There are so many different options. The preferred choice these days seems to be swallowing a bottle of pills. But all I have is Tylenol, and that isn't really the most potent drug out there. Hanging is another available option. Though, I don't have a basement, so there aren't any strong pipes to use. My weight is also a big factor. I could always go the way of Sylvia Plath and stick my head in the oven. Of course, that would probably cause some sort of controversy (as if suicide wasn't controversial enough); people would likely blame literature. That's not what I want. Besides, I'm not even sure how to do it properly, so it doesn't sound like the most effective method. Slitting my wrists seems to be the way to go. It's common, comfortable even.
Alright, it's settled. By eight o'clock tonight, I will slit my wrists. That gives me about forty-five minutes to prepare everything. I have chosen a fairly messy way of going about this. I may have a general hate and apathy, but I don't want to make a big mess. So, grocery bags should help. And rubber bands, to keep them fixated on my arms. Maybe I can use some kind of bucket in addition to the bags. Just in case.
Other aspects of importance to me are the aesthetics. My clothing, for instance. I want to make sure I wear my favorite shirt. Thing is, I'm not completely positive which one is my favorite. Perhaps the one with that dancing cartoon muffin. Yes, that works. I grab the shirt from my closet and put it on. Another important thing to me is music. I hate to copy something from the movies, but I would love to go out with my favorite album playing: a short wedding album put together by a couple of underground punk bands from New York. The record already sits in the player, waiting for me to play it.
The most important thing is to leave a note of some sort. My penmanship is atrocious, so I typed my note instead. Well, notes actually. I constructed a specific note for each family member and close friend, and put them all on a diskette titled "If I Should Die Before I Wake". It's not too terribly creative, but that's not really something I'm going to have to worry about soon. I suppose I should have been a little more compassionate with what I wrote, but my mother needs to know how horrible she always made me feel.

A lot of people don't understand the hatred I have for my mother, with the exception of a few of my friends. This woman, the woman who should shower me with her unconditional love, has always treated me like a worthless disappointment. She always lets me know that I was an accident, a late night of teenage drunken debauchery with some guy named Steve. I have never been good enough. It's bad enough that I wasn't supposed to happen, but I also wasn't even a girl. Apparently, that is justification enough to give me absolutely no self-esteem or confidence.
There is far more to it than just that. But I couldn't possibly sum up eighteen years of neglect and abuse (both emotional and physical) in less than an hour, so I won't bother. The point is: my mother is the root cause of my misery. It actually wasn't until three years ago when I discovered my depression. Before then, I had never really known what it was, other than some kind of crazy person's disease. After graduating from high school and losing most of my friends, I found out what true depression is. That is when I became manic; a potential threat to my own well-being. I laughed then because it seemed preposterous. I laugh now because of my ignorance.
These are all unnecessary semantics, though. They don't matter; that was the past. All that matters is the present. Not even the future holds any importance. Most people can't seem to be able comprehend this simple fact. I do, though, and that is why I am perfectly fine with the idea of suicide. Whether I die now or fifty years from now makes no difference whatsoever. There is no Heaven, there is no Hell. There is just death; you die and that's it. Everything from your life—your knowledge, your experiences, your memories, everything—is all for naught. When you die, it is almost like you were never even there. Why do the things we do when we can't enjoy them forever? Life is pointless, so why go on?

The dancing Elvis clock on my wall swings its hips. Twenty minutes left. Too much thinking is counterproductive in this kind of situation. My mind has to be clear and free of thought. This is supposed to be the coward's way out, but it actually takes a fair amount of courage. I walk out into the kitchen to get a couple of grocery bags. Five minutes of searching only yields in the finding two plain white plastic bags. I was hoping to find blue bags, but I suppose color isn't important. On my way back to my bedroom, I flash a dirty look at our cat. I always hated that cat.
I shuffle through my desk drawers for rubber bands to hold the grocery bags in place. The first three snap under the first hint of strain, but I eventually find two good ones; a wide green one and a small pink one. As I test their strength and durability, a thought occurs to me: "How am I supposed to get to my wrists with these bags on my arms? Damn…" No problem, I already have an alternative in mind. I put a new garbage bag in my trashcan and decide that it will be sufficient enough. With only thirteen minutes left, there isn't much time to waste.

Waiting is the hardest part, especially when you are intent on actually going through with it. The last thing you want to do is start re-evaluating your life. What if you decide that want to live after all? That's not something I have to worry about, though. I made up my mind long ago, and now I am finally ready to execute what I have been wanting to do for at least a month. Most people would surely think I'm crazy; the human's primary instinct is survival. They would change their minds if put into my position. After prolonged depression, you begin to second-guess everything that is accepted by society as "normal".
Struggling to keep my mind clear and calm, I go over a mental checklist. Everything seems to be ready: trashcan with new garbage bag, record waiting to be played, and the diskette with notes for my friends and family. I slap my forehead as soon as I realized that I forgot the most important factor; I actually forgot all about having a blade ready. Normal razorblades are too difficult to manage, so I retrieve my black boxcutter "Lazy Lucy". Nice and sharp.

Two minutes left. It is a good enough time to start playing the record. As I always do, I turn on the record player then adjust the volume to a desirable level. I meticulously drop the needle onto the clear blue vinyl, knowing it will be the last time I will ever do this. There is a slight scratching, followed by the early 1990's pop-punk sounds of a band I never had a chance to meet, flowing out of the old speakers. The atmosphere I have created for myself is aesthetically pleasing in a melancholic way.
Probably due to a force of habit, I take two of my vitamins. I lay everything in its proper place and position myself on my bed. The first song begins fading, which means it is now time for me to get this over with. I pull the trashcan near me and drape my arms over it. Although I know this is only a matter of seconds, time seems to significantly slow down. As I slide the release mechanism on the boxcutter, I listen intently to the razor sliding out. Without even thinking about it, I puncture the soft skin of the underside of my wrist with the razor and begin to pull it towards me. Down the road, not across the street.
It is as if this tool, this object of redemption, is an extension of my body. It feels like a part of me that I never knew about; reminiscent of when I discovered myself during early boyhood. The blade dances along my skin; it is my paintbrush and my arm is my canvas. The only color I paint with is the color of life and beauty. I know exactly what I am doing, where I am going. This is what it feels like to play god. Knowing that I can control my own destiny—it is in my hands, and my hands alone—truly is the ultimate freedom. I'm the only one who matters.
I watch the open veins fill with the vital fluids that had just been within me. In a matter of seconds, blood begins to pour out, run down my arm, and cascade into the garbage bag held by the trashcan. Unexpectedly, I hear the phone ring from the living room. I move to my other arm, and begin working the same magic demonstrated only moments ago. The phone rings. This time, I only go half the length, deeming any more as unnecessary. The phone rings. In the same fashion as the left arm, blood leaves my right arm; the pattern of flow even appears to be the same. The phone rings. Before my arms become an undecipherable crimson mess, I note that they look like a small family tree gone horribly awry.
The answering machine turns on. As I look into the trashcan, I grow faint. Never before have I seen so much blood in real life. Not since my friend's uncle Mort shot himself in the head. And that was only a short glimpse. This is so much more real; it's my own blood, pouring out of my arms and sitting right in front of me in a goddamned trashcan. My thoughts start to grow sporadic and as I lose my strength, it becomes hard to keep my arms positioned directly above the "blood bucket". The beep of the answering machine grabs my attention.
Considering my current situation, I suddenly become quite alert. Not for long, but long enough. My music is just low enough for me to be able to make out the message being recorded: "Hi sweetie, it's mom. Look, I'm sorry about how things have been around the house lately. Everything has been so hectic for me at work and with my new boyfriend. I know I haven't been paying much attention to you the past couple of weeks, and I want to say that I'm sorry. Anyway, to help make it up to you, I bought you that new zombie book you've been wanting. And I want to take you to go see a movie, any movie you want. We'll go tomorrow night. Afterwards, we can even stop by the comic book shop. I hope you don't hate me. Alright, I better go; my cell phone is starting to cut out. I'll see you when I get home, hun. Bye. I love you."
Dammit, I really screwed up. I try to get out of bed, I suppose in some sort of effort to get to the phone. The excessive blood loss has made me too weak to make any progress. My arms are too raw and in too much pain to support the weight of my large frame. Instead of getting up, I fall over and slump to the floor, knocking over the trashcan in the process. As I lay there, I watch my blood spill and form a thick dark puddle, but that is the least of my concerns now. I think back on what a horrible son I have been, what a horrible son I am. My gift has become my curse. As I think about all the anguish I must have caused my mother and the anguish I am about to cause her, I regret leaving such a nasty note behind for her. She may not have been the best mother, but she is the only one I have. I took that for granted. I am beginning to lose consciousness and I feel the need to say something; the unheard last words of a troubled and desperate youth. In a way, I am relived no one is around to hear me, because I can only manage to utter one simple word…
"Fuck."