Author's Note. I have been in something of a funk the last few days and decided I needed to work off some of that negative energy before I continued with either of my currently ongoing stories. You can consider this literary sorbet; something to cleanse the palette before the next course. It is also written in first person, something I do not normally do, but decided to experiment with. Be warned, if the summary did not already scare you and you have come this far, this story is extremely sad and depressing. Do not read if you are in current need of cheering up. You have been warned.

I swing my left arm and silence the alarm clock mere seconds after it sounds. I am already awake, I have been for hours, and have no need for the snooze alarm. It is six o'clock in the morning and once again I have slept no more than three or four hours in total. I don't want to get out of bed, I don't want to go to school or face another person, but I have no choice. This is what is expected of me and I cannot disappoint. My mother already knows something is wrong with me but can think of no course of action that won't highlight her own inadequacies.

I actually know what is wrong with me; I am severely depressed, clinical depression the websites call it, but I cannot heal myself any more than I can remove my own appendix. I have been feeling like this for at least the last six to eight months, maybe longer, but was able to conceal my symptoms well enough until I stopped sleeping. Moody teenagers are a dime a dozen and being sad or down doesn't exactly make you stand out. Not sleeping for days on end, or sleeping only a couple hours a night, will eventually make you stand out.

As the bags under my eyes grew and darkened, and my physical condition began to deteriorate, my mother did take me to our family doctor. He couldn't find anything physically wrong with me, but did prescribe Ambien for my insomnia. I took it a few times but it didn't really help. After a few weeks with no improvement I went back with my mother. The doctor changed my prescription to Resterol and suggested that perhaps my condition was psychological in nature and I should see a psychiatrist.

My mother did not react the way you would think she would. She tends to be overprotective, ok she can be extremely overprotective, but she dismissed out of hand any possibility of me seeing a shrink. Like the rest of her family, my mother has a problem with psychiatrists and that whole field of medicine. I don't know why, exactly, perhaps she worries that if I see a psychiatrist it will shed light on her own mental problems? I mean, I love her, she is my mother after all; but she has issues. Once the doctor mentioned "psychiatrist" she pretty much was finished with the process. She gave me my bottle of Resterol and left me to my own devices.

I took the Resterol sporadically for a couple months but then I had the dream or "The Dream" as I call it. I forget most of my dreams, just like the majority of people, but this one stuck with me. In this dream I killed myself, or at least I think I killed myself. I hung myself in an attic. I placed my head in the noose and kicked the stool on which I was standing aside. I felt my body fall and the rope tighten around my neck; then I woke up. It was an amazing dream; I remembered every detail. The most important detail, though, was how I felt when I did it. I was eager and felt no fear or trepidation at all. That was the first time I seriously began to think about killing myself and began hoarding my Resterol. That was three months ago.

I've dallied long enough; it's time to force myself out of bed. I quickly get ready for my day and take a long shower. After getting dressed I exit my bedroom to the sound of bacon frying. My mother says good morning to me, but it's not like it used to be. She still makes me breakfast in the morning and provides for all of my daily needs, but she doesn't want to talk to me anymore beyond the perfunctory good morning, good night, etc. It's almost as if she is afraid of something; I don't think she's afraid of me per se, but rather what I might say. I don't really know, hell, maybe she's afraid I'm actually crazy or something.

I eat breakfast with her in silence. Eventually she musters the courage to ask me how school is going. I quietly answer "ok" and continue eating. She doesn't talk anymore during the meal and neither do I. When I'm finished I go grab my bag and say good bye as I exit the apartment. I wish I could tell her how things really are, but I can't. It's obvious the whole topic of mental illness is something she cannot deal with and engaging her on the subject would be a fruitless endeavor.

I quickly glance at the front door of Carly and Spencer's loft before I make my way down the stairs. I used to go to school with Carly and Sam every morning but stopped that a few months ago; around the time I began thinking of suicide. The combination of Sam's constant insults and my unrequited feelings for Carly were just too depressing. I had already become prone to crying at times for no reason; I couldn't bear it if it happened in front of Carly and Sam. When I started walking to school by myself Carly was puzzled at first, but she soon started dating a new guy and it quickly left her mind. Sam never said anything one way or another.

I quickly walk to Ridgeway avoiding any eye contact with the people I pass. Nobody ever takes any notice, as I said earlier, sad teenagers do not stand out or demand any notice. As I enter the school I glance furtively around as if looking for imminent danger. Nobody pays me any attention; Carly and Sam still do iCarly every week but I never appear on camera anymore. I never actually declared that I would remain strictly behind the camera, but I began shooting down any idea where I would be on film. Sam didn't mind, she always hated whenever I was on screen and Carly stopped pitching any ideas like that once my insomnia really took hold.

There are not many students in the hallways; I am usually early like today. As I grab the books I'll need for my first couple periods I feel the presence of a pair of bodies behind me. I turn around after closing my locker and am greeted by a couple members of the football team. I couldn't even tell you their names, but their letterman jackets make it obvious who they are.

"Hey Benson," the one on the left begins, "Can you do me a favor and find out if Carly will go out with me. It's not like you'll ever get a chance with her."

I sigh and try to not sink to their level or show any hurt on my face. "I'll see what I can do." I begin to walk off as the two of them share a hearty laugh at my expense. The really sad thing is that there's an excellent chance Carly will be dating the guy by the end of the weekend. I enter the library and find a quiet corner to stay in until homeroom starts. I open my history textbook and try and read, but find it too hard to concentrate. My thoughts keep turning back to killing myself, as they often do now. Sometimes I think about shooting myself, sometimes hanging myself, hell sometimes I dream about running in front of a speeding bus. There are a few other students in the library; I watch them go about their business along with the library staff. I wonder if any of them have any idea I am sitting there ardently contemplating the end of my life. I wonder if any of them would care one way or another. I am pretty sure they wouldn't.

The last period of the day just ended a few minutes ago. I put my books away and gather what I need to take home. I don't look at anyone and I certainly don't talk to anyone. I probably only spoke with two or three people all day. I said hello to Carly and Sam between classes when I saw them. Sam insulted me, of course, and for a second a tear welled up in one of my eyes. She didn't notice, or just didn't care, but I thought Carly might have. She started to say something but I said I was late and quickly left after assuring them I would see them for the show that night.

Now I just want to get home so I can hide in my room until it is time for iCarly. I am miserable in my room all the same, but at least there I am miserable where nobody can see. This comes in handy because, again as I said earlier, I am prone to random bouts of crying. I wish I knew why, well I know why, I just wish I had better control over my emotions.

I am out of the school before I can run into Carly and Sam. As I walk home I begin to think hard about things; always dangerous for me since my deeper thoughts always turn extremely dark these days. I pass by a small park where I used to play with Carly and Sam when we were younger. My thoughts turn wistful as I remembered what those times were like. I had no worries beyond wishing Carly would be my girlfriend and then I could be hopeful that would someday come true. Now, of course, I know that will never happen. In some ways it is a relief; one less thing I have to worry about.

Thinking about Carly becomes too much for me, I suddenly find I can't stop crying. I head over to a park bench and slump down, my bag at my feet. I keep my head down and do my best to keep the tears at bay, but I do not succeed. Just one more failure to add to the list; I can't help kicking myself when I'm down. I can hear someone approaching; I wipe my eyes with the sleeve on my left arm and mostly stem the flow of tears. I don't lift my head and I don't say anything as the mystery person sits on the bench next to me.

"Freddie, are you ok?" It would have to be Carly, of course, the one person I did not ever want to see me cry.

I hesitated before finally facing her. I managed to stop crying, but it was pretty obvious what I had been doing. "Yeah, I'm fine." I don't know how convincing I sound right then.

"Are you sure? I'm worried about you Freddie. You can tell me anything, you know, anything at all." I have always thought Carly's eyes were beautiful; big and brown and especially expressive. Right now they appear to show concern.

I think for a second. I know what I want to say to her; I want to tell her that I need help in the worst way. I want to tell her that I am so sad all the time and that it scares me because I don't know why I'm sad all the time. I want to tell her that I think constantly about committing suicide and ending my life. I want to tell her that I am so lonely and wish I could reach out to my friends, but I can't. I want to tell her how I hate myself so much and don't know why. I want to tell her I cry myself to bed every night and spend hours and hours telling myself what I worthless loser I am. I want to tell her that when I finally do fall asleep my dreams are filled with graphic scenes of me killing myself. Finally I want to tell her that I need to be saved, that I need someone to help me stay alive, because without that help I will certainly die very soon. I want to tell Carly all of these things, but I don't. Maybe it's because I am unsure of her reaction, maybe my mom's feelings about mental illness have rubbed off on me. I really don't know the reason, but all I mange to say is "Don't worry, I'm fine."

Carly doesn't really look too sure, but she doesn't press the issue. She stands up and to my surprise holds out her hand to me. "Walk me home, please?" She gives me her best smile. I take her hand and we walk home together. I don't say much; instead I just listen to her speak.

When we reach our respective front doors Carly stops and asks me if I would like to stay after iCarly is over to watch movies with her and Sam; we haven't hung out together very much lately. I am about to beg off when Carly bats her eyelashes and says, "Please, for me?" Even in the throes of clinical depression I still cannot say no when Carly pulls that on me. I agree before entering my apartment.

iCarly has just ended and I have given the all clear sign. Carly and Sam wander over to the tech cart as I begin packing my things. "All set for movie night?" Carly is sounding cheerful.

"Eww, Freddork is going to be there?" Sam's voice sounds disgusted at the very thought. "Do we really want to hang out with him?"

I saw Carly shoot Sam a poisonous look, "Yes we do. Of course we do."

Sam snorted, "Maybe you do, but I don't want any of this loser rubbing off on me. I might turn into a dork or something."

Sam looks at me and Carly with a smile on her face; maybe she's joking, maybe she isn't. I can see that Carly is not especially happy with Sam right now.

Sam either cannot or will not take Carly's hint. "Hey Freddie, if not for us would you even have a reason to live?"

"SAM!" I can tell Carly is upset now.

The thing is, Sam's not wrong. I am a loser and with or without her and Carly I don't have any reason to live. I look down at the floor and sigh. "You two enjoy movie night, really. I have to go." I don't give either of them a chance to say anything and hurry out the studio door and down the stairs to the first floor. I see Spencer working on a sculpture as I come down the stairs. "Bye Spence," I call out as I leave the apartment.

"Buy Freddie, catch you later," Spencer cheerfully calls back.

I enter my apartment; it is empty and very, very quiet. Mom is working second shift and won't be home for several hours. I enter my bedroom and sit down on the bed. Of course I'm a loser with no reason to live. I don't even know what I was thinking earlier; no way would Carly and Sam want to hang out with me.

I know something else as well; this is it, this is as good as my life will ever get. I will never be happy again; I will never be in love, I will never succeed at anything. There is only one remedy, one thing I can do that will make things better. One thing I can do to end my suffering and finally rest. I open the bottom drawer of my dresser and feel around the back until I find the Resterol I have been saving, along with a bottle of vodka I procured last month.

I don't have any fear over what I am about to do, I actually find myself looking forward to it. I don't want to be rude so I write a short note which reads, "Don't blame yourself. It's all my fault. Maybe we'll see each other again some day." I fold the note and place it on my nightstand. I go into my bathroom and grab the bottle of extra strength Excedrin I keep in my medicine cabinet.

I sit down on the bed with my back against the headrest. I actually smile as I open up the bottle with my Resterol pills; I have been keeping up with the prescription refills and right now estimate that there are approximately 95 pills in the bottle. I swallow the first handful and wash them down with a gulp of vodka. The vodka tastes awful at first but gets better as my throat gets a little numb. I continue until all the Resterol are gone and then finish half of the Excedrin. By this point I am starting to feel groggy and take one final large swig of the vodka. I try and set it on the nightstand but my hand is unsteady and the bottle falls to the floor, shattering into who knows how many pieces. I actually laugh as I think about my mother having to clean up all the glass.

I stop laughing as I get comfortable on my bed. I have done enough research to know that a lot of people have second thoughts at this point in the process and call for help. I could do that, my cell phone is on my nightstand, I could call 911 or Carly or Spencer. I don't do that, however. Instead I find that I want to do this, I can't wait till my life ends. I smile as it occurs to me that I am about to find out the answer to the biggest mystery in the world. Is there an afterlife? Will I go to heaven, hell or somewhere in between? Maybe there is not any sort of afterlife and I will just rot in the ground and become worm food. This idea actually comforts me; I suspect that my afterlife would suck just as much as my current life.

I can feel my arms trembling now and my head getting heavy. My vision begins to waver; to me it feels like I am falling underwater looking up at the sky. As I sink deeper my vision gets blurrier and blurrier until there is no more light. It is at that exact point that I stop feeling anything whatsoever. Finally bliss.