Malcolm looked at the knife.
It wasn't what most people, who wanted to go out with a bang, used. But, Malcolm Wilkerson wasn't most people.
You're the plan, Malcolm!
Why didn't you figure it out FASTER, genius?
Is Malcolm a robot?
Put Malcolm on, he'll know what to do.
Malcolm always knew what to do.
He knew what to sell, what direction to take, how to slaughter everyone in every game the family ever played until nobody wanted to play anymore, he knew how to get money, he could do impossible calculations that most people would enter wrong on a calculator off the top of his smart little head, and Malcolm could do everything and anything.
So it made sense: Malcolm could do this.
It wasn't a carving knife, with wicked sharp edges. It wasn't blunt. But it was sharp enough to make a clean cut that would kill him quickly and precisely, no mess ups, like when the executioner had to saw through the neck to cut it off properly.
Not that he'd be putting it anywhere near his neck.
He'd be cutting his wrists – yes, that part was typical – but it was the fastest course of action.
It was the knife that Reese used to cut carrots and parsnips and bread and dip in soup to sniff with when there wasn't a spoon nearby.
Reese was at a cooking class today – apparently they were making something Risotto. And Dewey was at football, while Lois was working overtime at Lucky Aide. Francis was having one of his rare visits from the far off Military School that was so terrible, and had of course immediately left to go to a party of some sort, and Hal had been given overtime because he had been sick the week before.
Hey, Francis? I bet your Military School is terrible. Truly the worst place on earth. Until you come home. Then you can't move fast enough to get out of the house.
Hi Lois. I bet you wish you hadn't popped out so many kids now. Wishing for a girl, no doubt, and all you get is rowdy boys. Such annoying, screaming, shouting, stealing, always-wrong boys. It'll be so much easier once one of them is gone, right?
Hal, partner. Buddy; Mate. How've you been? I haven't seen you in forever. Always at work. Always doing something else. Something different. Something without your children.
Reese, my man. Managed to beat anyone else up yet? Your little brother? Which one? Yeah, I know right, both annoying little squirts. So you aimed for the smaller one, but the older one took the punch? You go man. I bet you beat him up good.
Dewey. Do you see the lights, and the metal things? You're not supposed to touch them. But you will. You always were a curious child. So damn curious. You wanted to know. Gotta break it to you little guy; knowing isn't always fun.
Malcolm decided not to leave a long note, ten thousand words long like he could've.
But the things he would've said would've been too hard to write down. He had read Thirteen Reasons Why by Jay Asher, and he had always been amazed at Hannah. Her endurance of recording the tapes was astronomical.
He didn't have that type of endurance.
It was a short note.
Hey Everyone.
I guess that I should say why I did it.
I was always that kid.
The only chance for the future of the family.
The only hope.
I don't want to be the freak anymore.
Give Reese a go with his cooking. He'll do great.
Give Dewey a go with whatever he's good at when he's older. He'll be fantastic.
Give the baby, when it comes, a chance. To be whatever. To be brilliant.
And Lois; Hal: This time – don't mess it up.
I love you.
Malcolm.
The first cut was small, and the pain was no more than a pin prick, but it looked like he had opened a small opening in a soda bottle that had been shaken and the lid screwed on tight.
It came out faster than Malcolm thought it would.
The second cut hurt like an injection, but the surface area was bigger than the first. His jeans and shirt was completely covered with the sticky hot, 37°C scarlet liquid. Malcolm's vision was fading quickly now – black dots swarming like flies across his vision.
With difficulty, he picked up the note, and clasped it in his hand. His last thought was not of who he thought it would be of – Cynthia. His first love, a bit of geek, with mismatched curls, and that firm expression on her coffee coloured face. He remembered that one kiss, that one moment, that one second, where everything was right.
Damn.
He should've written her a note all of her own.
Malcolm didn't hear the front door banging open.