I like to think Ashley will cry at my funeral.

Not that I'm some asshole who enjoys seeing her cry; it's just nice to think someone, especially her, cares enough. Besides, she has always been the person who cares about me the most.

Ashley, my best friend from before I knew what the term best friend meant. We've always had that connection, the one no one has the words to describe. I used to mistake that connection for true love. Sometimes I still do.

Anyways, as long as I'm painting this picture of my funeral, I might as well figure out how I died. I know it was suicide, but how did I do it? I probably don't want to know.

How many people will be there? People really liked my mother, the whole town did. When she died, I sort of became the town's pet. The store owners were always checking up on me, makes me wonder if they'll care enough to show up.

Really wonder...

Danny, Ricky, Jason and Lizzy will come; they're my best friends, but I don't even know how they'll react.

Lizzy will cry, her mascara will run down her cheeks, and she'll be in all-black no different from the clothes she usually wears. How hard will she cry? I don't know. It'll be loud, people will be giving her looks.

Danny will cry too; not that I'm saying he's a sissy. But I know he cries real easily, I don't think he'll do it at the funeral. No, it'll probably be when he first finds out about it. He'll cry real soft though, quietly so the only evidence is the red puffy eyes.

Jason is a mystery. I imagine he'll be crying, all alone in his room. But we're talking about the big proud jock here. He'll probably lash out, get poor grades from not studying. Slack off in class, and joke around behind the teachers back, just to feel something.

And Ricky. Ricky will probably be the one comforting Ashley. Trying to assure her it's not her fault, because with Ashley, she always feels like she could have done something. Ricky will probably punch a hole in his wall. He'll lash out worse than Jason, start screaming at adults. He'll trash his room too, once he gets the news.

They'll probably be standing together, maybe sitting. Trying to comprehend what happened too me. I hope they won't be angry, but how am I to know? Maybe they'll understand, maybe they won't.

The only one that doesn't fit into this is Carolina. I suppose Carolina is my best friend, we have been since kindergarten, but we only were friends because of Ashley. We've gotten into fights over who was her best friend, her bestest I mean. I know she cares about me, or I hope she does, because I know I care about her.

I know she'll be upset when I die, but will she feel the pain? Will she cry her eyes out? Will she scream at her parents, for not understanding? Will she cut herself off from the world?

I don't know.

All I know is that I hope so. I know it makes me selfish, and I don't care. But I want her too. I want her to feel grief so bad, she thinks her chest will explode. I want her to scream at my grave, at the sky, God, the world, ANYTHING. I want to know she feels for me.

She feels anything for me.

I don't care if she misses me, or hates me, or wishes she could kill me, I just want her to care about me. I want proof that she does.

Because I know I do.


I'm not some emo goth kid. I don't wear black everyday, in fact I'm pretty sure I own one black shirt I wore to my mother's funeral. I don't think it even fits anymore.

Suicide isn't some sort of obsession of mine. I don't read the newspaper scanning for articles on it. I don't talk about death constantly or have black death symbols printed in my room.

I don't take drugs. In fact, I'm not even sure where to access drugs. I don't know the right people to ask, how much money to spend. The last thing I want is to be involved with stuff like that.

I am not going to kill myself. There are so many things I haven't done yet, so much more to experiences.

Sometimes though, I'm tempted. I want people to know, to understand I'm this guy whose happy all the time. Sometimes I hurt. Sometimes I hurt really fucking bad and I don't say SHIT. I listen to bullcrap all fucking day and I don't say SHIT. Sometimes I want everyone to know they couldn't help me in time and I don't FUCKING CARE.

The only problem is I do care.

So I snap out of it. I sit there thinking of how people react, remind myself people love me and it's too selfish to do that to them. I have to remind myself that they care enough about me to listen to me bullcrap about my life like they do.

But I don't.

Instead I lock myself in my room and drum on my drums real loud, so Dad's pounding at my door and he opens it and we scream at each other. Sometimes our fights get so loud the neighbors come out and Dad has to act like "he's a responsible father trying to scold the rebellious drug-obsessed youth."

Then I'm really angry and I lock myself in the bathroom this time and I stare real hard at the razor blade in the bathroom, until I snap out of it.

Sometimes it doesn't end like that though. Sometimes before Dad gets to screaming back at me, he just hits me. Then I'll stare at him, really coldly and I'll hit him back. Then he'll push me down and lock me in the room from the outside.

That's when I climb into the closet, shaking with anger, and I find the stuff I keep hidden in there for instances like this. That's when things get really bad and I'm crying while I'm bleeding in the closet.

But no one can know that.


One night, I was in the closet, and while my fingers search for the razor blade it finds something else instead. A pen on top of a notebook.

Instead of bleeding my emotions that night, I wrote it all down. Every last thought and emotion went into that notebook filling spaces with the angst of a fifteen year old drummer boy. The first thing I wrote, was the first thing I felt.

The truth completely unmasked and bare.

I like to think Ashley will cry at my funeral.