Everyone thinks that I'm so happy. Laughing, smiling, pretending, acting. Wearing long sleeves and a smile to hide myself. Pathetic, really. I'm a 41 year old man, not some 12 year old tween girl. Ugh. What would people think if they knew I was dying inside? Probably laugh and leave me. Not like they actually care about me anyway.
Maybe they already know, but they just don't care enough about me to help. They just see a joking comedian, not a dying soul.
I picked up the bottle of pills and opened it. I'm done with this life. I emptied the bottle. I didn't bother writing a note. No one will care enough to read it.
I started pouring some of the pills into my mouth. I took the pills with the beer I had so thoughtfully taken into the bathroom with me. I took the rest of the pills and looked down at my phone. No calls, not texts. No one wants to know how I am. No one cares. I should go. I should already be gone.
My vision is starting to blur, and I'm getting closer to my much needed eternal sleep. Slowly, my vision gets darker, and blurrier.
Goodbye, everyone.
And everything was...
Silent.