I sit in front of my computer screen, my favorite word processor open and the cursor blinking, waiting for me to type. I stared at the screen, scanning my brain for something to say. I've never done this before. I've turned over ideas, put them down, and then picked up another for days, weeks, months now, and now that the time has finally come, I don't know what to say. What can I say? Maybe I shouldn't say anything at all, it's not like anyone will care either way. No one seems to care about anything I do, unless it's something I'm not proud of.
I won't be proud of what I'm going to do tomorrow, but it'll be just because I won't be able to feel anything. I'll be dead. It's been a long time coming. I've wanted to do this ever since I was twelve and my Mom ditched me and my dad. Dad started to drink, and even though his body is here, he's not. Alcohol took him away from me a long time ago. I'm seventeen now, short and grotesquely fat. I try to fix the fat problem, but it didn't work at first, so now if I eat, I just vomit it up. My teachers can tell that I've lost weight, but it's not enough to worry anybody.
I turn to my desk, and pick up the pills that I've been hoarding whenever I could for months. I'm supposed to be taking them for depression, but they didn't work they way they were supposed to. So I pretended I was taking them, and got refills whenever I would be out of them. They'll help me tomorrow. I put them back in the drawer and cover them up with the papers I've been using. It's not a very good hiding place, but it doesn't matter. No one looks through my stuff, but it feels wrong not to hide them somehow.
I turn back to my screen, and after a few minutes of staring at my blank screen expressionless, someone straps weights to my eyelids. I can't keep them open. I close the word processor, after it asks if I want to save my document. I click now, considering the fact that there's nothing to save except for the formatting I set up to stall when I first sat down. I change into my pajamas, and climb into bed, and drift off to sleep, where I don't have to worry about anything. I can just be. I can just be twelve year old Beth Larson, back when everything was okay.