The Impractical Suicide of Lilly Riddell
I can't pinpoint the exact moment I started wanting to die. The idea was growing inside me for a long time before I consciously thought it. I do remember waking up one morning, a few weeks into my final year of school and thinking I really wish I hadn't done that.
And then I thought: Done what?
Woken up. I responded to myself. Now I have to go through an entire day before I can get back into bed. I just want to sleep forever.
Isn't that just death? I asked.
Yeah, I suppose it is.
Of course, then I had to get up, and the whole thing was shelved for a while. But it didn't go away. As time went on, the idea of not living anymore became increasingly appealing. My life had become a book with a big, migraine-inducing midsection that was making me dread to turn the page. I'd lost patience.
I guess you wana know the grisly details, huh? What "drove me to it"? Well, the answer is nothing, moron. My name is Lily Riddell (that's Rid-el, by the way. Lilly Riddle sounds like a toadstool) and my life is basically fine. I've got two living, married parents, a nice house, and plenty friends. Not best friends, of course. I just hover on the edge with them as I do in class, or at home, or anywhere really. You don't need a fake passport to disappear, it turns out. Just stop talking, smile when they do, and you'll slowly edge to the periphery of life. Everyone will be too preoccupied with their own stories to ask where you're going.
So that's it, you conclude. She's lonely. Well, that's a part of it. But it's not like I'm a castaway on a deserted island. I chose to be like this, because the few times I thought I was close to someone, they've ended up showing me otherwise. Nothing dramatic, mind you: just little things. Telling my secrets, standing me up, fazing me out, that sort of thing. So I gave up, and slowly stopped enjoying anything.
I'd been like this for pretty much all of year twelve, but I persevered with it. I thought I might get engaged in life again eventually, if I gave it time. Time went by, and nothing changed, until I woke up one morning and regretted it.
The question was, of course, how? What would be the easiest way? As much as I wanted my life to be over, it would be good only for me. I couldn't stand the thought of Mum or Dad having to find me in the bathtub. Of my friends feeling crushing guilt for never noticing (well, I kind of liked that idea to be honest, but I knew it was unfair). The impact my suicide would have on my family, on my school... and worst of all, dying itself. Sitting alone, feeling the life drain out of me bit by bit. Hearing my heart rate slow down. Struggling to breathe.
It all seemed so pathetic.
I wanted to jump in front of a bus to save a baby or something, dumb as it sounds. Take a bullet for someone. The people I knew would still be impacted, but not nearly as badly. It wouldn't haunt them for years to come at least.
And they wouldn't look at my gave and think "I never knew she was so weak."
Maybe even "I never knew she was so brave."
So naturally, you can see the attraction that becoming a companion held.
