Most people do not put much thought into their own death. We as human beings instinctively fear it and try to hold onto the belief that we'll be immortal. Not many people want to consider the hows, the whys, the whens. It's not what decent people think about. With such limited time on Earth why would we worry about something so inevitable? People who have not considered death are lucky people, ones that you'd probably be best to avoid for fear of realizing the glaring differences between your lives.
Dave Karofsky has considered suicide since he was thirteen years old, right after his first wet dream featuring a lithe boy who was once in his boy scout troop. Confusion kicked in first, then anger, and finally a strange numbed state. Better to be numb. Numbness kept him away from the bottles of pills in his mother's bathroom, from the shotgun in his father's study. The numbness kept him able to go to school every day. Never happy but still alive. Dave figured that happiness was an overrated concept that the guidance counselor tried to sell to make her own useless life meaningful. It had no place in his own heart or mind or soul.
Now, it wasn't like Dave was sad exactly. There was no sitting in a corner weeping for the boy (well, not particularly often). It was an emptiness in the chest, a horrible weight right at the base of his neck. It was the taste of blood at the back of his tongue and the way he always felt mysteriously weak. Dave has never been considered a lightweight, but he finds himself cold. He finds himself shaky. Above all else however Dave wants someone to be there. He craves the feeling of warmth around his shoulders and a heartbeat that is not his own to lull him to sleep. He craves the love and affection his family does not offer.
In truth Dave is unsure of his response, even if someone did offer that affection. It has been years since he had received or given a comforting hug. Even a gentle hand on his forehead. Dave fears the touch, because he's afraid that he'd never be able to get enough once he accepted the first. A glutton for love, desperate to make up for all of the times he had been in want. Dave doesn't believe he deserves any of it. Somehow, somewhere, something has gone horridly wrong inside of him. He is a fluke. An accident. Like a sixth finger on his hand, except it is something that cannot be removed with a simple scalpel. This is something that has tainted his very soul, and can never be removed.
And like every accident, it must be amended. That's what Dave decides to write in his suicide note, the one he feverishly worked on in secret for weeks while he began collecting pill bottles. Adjusting his tie for the last time (he knows it's stupid to get dressed up, he's well aware he'll end up making a mess of it by the time he's found, but it feels important) Dave sits on the edge of his freshly made bed. A few pills, then a drink. Over and over until he feels sick. Until he decides to lay down. Until his eyes close.
By the time his father comes home Dave's cold.