Here is a story that has been floating around my head for a while now. I've been wondering lately what my family would do if I died and how I might go about doing it. (Don't worry, I won't really kill myself. I love you guys too much.) There is a poem at the end. Just a heads up. Enjoy!!

You Don't Know Me

I carefully shut the door to my room and turned toward my room. I grew up in this room. I had played, dreamed, and imagined in here. There was the burn on the wall from when I had played with matches when I was nine.

There was the nail polish splatter from when Heather had accidentally tossed me the nail polish when it was open. It was purple and stood out against the pale yellow of the walls. I remember my mom had made her go home that night, but laughed about it the next day.

My trashcan was full of all the rejected poems and stories I had written from the past month. I took the matchbox out of my pocket and lit a match. I lit my incense and my special candle I got from a garage sale when I was feeling depressed, and vowed I would never burn it. I blew the match out and placed it in a cup of water on my nightstand.

I peered into the cup and watched the dozens of spent matchsticks floating in the water. I sat on my bed and contemplated my plan. I wanted to make sure I was ready for it and I felt surprisingly calm. I had thought that when I actually got to it that I would have a million voices in my head telling me not to do it, but there was nothing, not a single reason why I shouldn't end it right now.

I grabbed my bear that I have had since I was born and hugged her close. I looked around my room again and stared at the various things taped to my walls. There was a picture of happier times of my family and I at the beach. I was sitting on a rock waving at the camera and I had obvious sunburn on my shoulders. My brother was sitting in the water splashing and trying to grab the waves. My mother was standing at the edge of the water watching my brother with a big smile on her face. My dad isn't in the picture because he was the one who took it.

I wondered if he was fooling around with his secretary around that time. We only found out four months ago about it, when he left with nothing but a note. That was the last contact he had with us. That was when all this started. My mom became an alcoholic, lost her job at the hospital as a secretary, and is now a waitress at a bar. Sometimes, she comes home too drunk to do anything, but most of the time she has a guy with her from the bar, which was the first one to ask her to have sex.

I've had to take care of my brother John, ever since she jumped off the deep end. He's a nice kid, don't give me wrong, but sometimes I can't handle him. When he gets out of control, I have on more than one occasion; yell at him that's his entire fault that Dad left. Of course, it's no one's fault except my dad that he left. John would get tears in his innocent blue eyes and run to his room, slamming the door.

I looked at the other things taped onto my walls and couldn't help, but think about all my writing. I love writing, but ever since my dad had left, my writing took a turn to the dark side. I used to write about simple love, small joys of life, and happy subjects. Now, I write about death, anger, and the crimes of the devil. I got up and tore down all my stories that I once been so proud of. I threw them into my trashcan, all but one. This was my latest creation that spelled out my feelings about my life. I had spent all last night perfecting it and most of the rejected papers in my trash were earlier editions of it. I placed it on my desk and opened my drawer.

I pulled out the long shiny revolver from the depths of my desk and looked it over. It looked fine, so I opened the cylinder and checked that all six bullets were still in there. I had brought it up here a week ago and my mother hadn't noticed that it was missing from her locked nightstand.

I shut the cylinder and placed it on my poem for later use. I looked at the clock on my wall and saw that my brother would be home in ten minutes. I really didn't want him to be the one to find me, but I didn't want to do it while he was in the house.

I pulled the matches out of my pocket again and struck a match. I watched it burn for a second, watching the tiny flame dance, an erotic dance. I dropped it into my metal trashcan and watched the flame grow until it started to eat away at all my hours of hard work, poring out my feeling and thoughts. Soon enough, smoke started to turn the air hazy, but I refused to open the window. It wouldn't matter anyways. I would be gone soon enough that it wouldn't bother me.

I watched the paper start to curl from the heat and a single word caught my eye. It wasn't a word actually. It was a name. Then I remembered the poem I had written for Shawn five months ago. I had had a secret crush on him for about two years before I finally got the nerve to give it to him. I kept revising it until it was perfect in my head, and until I used my best calligraphy to write it down perfectly. When I gave it to him he laughed at me and told me to get lost. I ran crying and found my poem later, in the trash crumpled in a ball. From then on Shawn ignored me like I never existed. I was heartbroken at the time and terrified that someone might find out about what I did. I started to avoid people and soon enough I was at the back of everyone's minds. Sure I still had my close friends, at the time, but I wasn't as popular as I had been.

I turned my back on my trashcan and picked up the revolver. I sat on my bed and hugged my bear close again for a moment before I brought the gun up. The air was really starting to choke me and I coughed for a moment before bringing the gun up to my mouth. I put the barrel in my mouth and angled it up so that it could go as quickly as it could into my brain and stop all this. I coughed again and was afraid that I might accidentally pull the trigger and the bullet would go through my cheek causing pain before I actually got it right. When I had cleared my lungs as best I could, I glanced over at the picture from the beach and wished that we had those happy times again. But I knew it could never be the same even if Dad did return and Shawn didn't look at me like if I was some dog crap on the bottom of his shoe.

The damage was done and it could never be fully healed. I shut my eyes and quickly pulled the trigger. Bang. I felt nothing for a fraction of a second before I felt as light as air and I drifted out of the shell I called me. I watched for a second as the flames in the trashcan stopped their eating and dwindled to a pile of smoldering ash. Then I was gone. I still remember that poem I had written all that time ago.

You don't know me
You'll never remember me

This world has left me
So I've decided to do the same

Father Gone
Mom Drunk
Shawn Disgusted

This world hates me
And I've finally decided that I feel the same

You might cry a few polite tears
But I know how you really feel
She's finally gone

Out of my life
Out of this world
Out of thought

At first you might wonder
Why I did it this way
But you know
You all know

You're part of the world that has left me
You're part of the world that hates me
You're part of that world

Don't deny it
You never will be able to
Because you know it to be true

You never knew me
And now you never will