To Whom It May Concern:

By the time you read this, I'll be dead. At least, I hope I will. I want to be dead when you read this, and no, it won't be because I've lived a "long, happy life," or whatever kind of Disney shit they try to tell you is the good thing to live through. I hope I've died through suicide. I hope I killed myself. Because I want to die by no one's hand but mine. I want to stay in control.

Sounds sick, doesn't it? Maybe it is. Maybe I am sick. The doctors have told me I am. They gave me pills to try and make me happy. But I don't want their artificial happiness: I don't want something that makes me be something. I'm tired of being so weak, so dependent on some little capsule full of some powder to take me somewhere I'm "supposed to be." I don't want something to regulate my mood, don't want someone to tell me how to feel. That would make me weak, would take away my control. And I have so little control already...

I flushed the pills down the toilet a week ago. Mum doesn't know - she thinks that the sugar pills in the bottle are the real thing and are helping me. She thinks my smiles are real instead of forced. Or maybe she doesn't. Maybe she knows I've gone off the deep end. That there's no hope for someone like me. Maybe she's given up, too.

I wonder if she's ever thought of suicide.

Oops, that topic again. Well, since we're on the subject, let's discuss it. Suicide. The big S. Odd topic for someone to think about. I mean, how often do you really think about killing yourself?

If you're like me, you think about it every day. If you're "normal," or hopped up on happy pills, probably at least once a month, if that. You think about what a relief it would be to just end it all, no more cares, no more worries, just slice through your veins, gobble down those pills, hang yourself, or, in my own case, a nice roaring fire to do the trick. You smile the more you think about it, and you start to plan it. After all, wouldn't do good to try and, I dunno, fail. When you try the big S, you want to make sure you die and stay dead. You don't want them bringing you back. I won't be brought back. By the time you find me I'll either be gone to suffocation from smoke inhalation, infection to my burnt skin, or, fuck, just from the burns themselves. It's going to be painful, I know, but if the fire burns deep enough I won't feel anything anymore - nerve endings destroyed, a perfect thought, huh? I want that. I want to be that way. I don't want to be brought back, and if you do bring me back I'll strangle you for doing it. Then I'll shoot myself up with whatever drugs I can find until my body can't take it anymore. (Hey, burnt and doing drugs. Sounds like a killer song. Haha. Killer.)

I know you probably think I'm joking. I know you think, "This kid's just upset about something, he'll get over it eventually." I am upset about something - a lot of things, actually: I'm upset that my boyfriend doesn't communicate with me. I'm upset that my friends abandon projects we're doing together without really telling me first. I'm upset that things are screwed up and I'm feeling weaker than ever.

I don't want to feel weak. Why feel weak when a single lit match, some gasoline, kerosene, can make you feel so strong?

Best of luck to you all when you find me. I'll be roasting in hell while my body roasts here.