BB: Alright...technically this is fiction. It's a suicide note, so there's angst in it. I just thought it'd be...a different thing to write this. You don't like it, you don't like it. That's all.
To Whom it May Concern:
If this paper is in your hand, if you're reading the inked letters on its white surface, then I'm dead. And if you think that's a hoax, you're fucked in the head. Now I can go on and on and on about why I wanted to die, but let me first tell you how I actually did it: today's the sixth of January. Today I'm going to hang a rope from my house's roof. I'm going to attatch that rope to my neck, then jump off the roof. If the noose doesn't hang me, falling from a two story house just might do me in. I'm pretty sure it should work, and if you're reading this, well, it did. Congrats to me, huh?
Now that you know the "how," the "where," as well as the "when," I bet you're going to wonder "why." Why would someone want to kill themself? Especially a guy like me: at first glance, I have it all - a loving family, great friends, good grades, a nice life. But if you took a look under the surface you'd see I'm a wreck: my mother doesn't give a shit about what I do, my step-father (or, more appropriately, step-fucker) is a drunk pot smoker who blames his bad habits on me ("I'm not drinking, it's that boy who's doing it; I'm not smoking weed, it's that boy who's doing it,"), my step-grandmother is a crazy old bat who doesn't remember anything, my siblings have abandoned me and my friends don't even know who I really am. They just know the perfect me, the one sculpted from ice. The one I made to take my place.
I actually like the ice me better than the real me: the real me is always afraid of people, afraid to reach out, to get close. The ice me isn't afraid to cut through the waves of friendships, relationships, isn't afraid to let people slide off of him, isn't afraid to just shrug his shoulders and say, "Fuck you then," when things don't go his way. The ice me is the me I would be, someday, if I hadn't killed myself. But I did, and the ice me is no more. Or maybe, maybe, he will be. Reincarnation might bring me back as him. Then maybe the imperfect me will be the me he wants to be. (Highly doubt it, though - imperfect me is never going to be the person anyone wants, whether it's to be or just to have.) Imperfect me is a stupid boy who can't pass anything, who doesn't know what to do, who doesn't know who he wants to be. Imperfect me writes poetry and tries to let people see the inside of him, even though he knows it means inviting them to hurt him, an invitation they take happily. Ice me keeps everyone at a certain distance, pushes them away when they try to chip through him. Imperfect me needs ice me to stay alive, because without ice me, imperfect me would die. He would die because people would trample his heart until it was mush because he let them in too far, let their claws stab too deep. Imperfect me cannot survive in this world alone. That is why he needs ice me. But ice me has started to abandon me. It's because ice me is melting in the wake of someone new: of someone I want to give imperfect me to. Imperfect me is happy that this new person is coming but ice me doesn't like him. Ice me wants him to melt away so that ice me can solidify again. I don't want him to go away, but ice me does. And now the other has abandoned me. Ice me is gone. Imperfect me is too close to the surface and is about to shatter into a million tiny pieces. Ice me, where are you?
He doesn't answer me. He'll never answer me, because ice me is no longer ice: he is a puddle. He is melted me. And melted me cannot help imperfect me. But the me I am becoming can. The me I want to be - dead me - can save imperfect me. And the only way to do that is to be dead.
Imperfect me is going to die tonight. Imperfect me and me. Me. I'm going to die in just a few hours. And the sad thing is? No one will care. I bet you won't. You don't even know me.