There are three hundred and sixty-five days in a year. About five hundred twenty-five thousand, nine hundred and forty-eight of those minutes I have to spend wishing I were dead. Tonight will be my thirteenth leap of faith. This time, all those minutes multiplied, seventeen-fold so that I could live up to this divine moment. The approximate number of people who will miss me: zero.
I have failed before, but only the lucky ones succeed on the first attempt. Funny thing about depression, most people who have it, KNOW for a fact that they suffer from it. It just wont go away; no matter how much Prozac we swallow. I keep all of my prescription bottles, though, not all over my floor like the druggies do. I keep them all in boxes. These boxes are piled ceiling high, because that's all I really care for in my room anyway. Those boxes, bottles and my calendar are my last few scraps of sanity.
I glance over to my calendar, there's not much time left in summer vacation. I don't care. I close the blinds, shutting the sunset out of the window over my bed. If my friends see that I'm home, another day will be ruined. They swear they need me for this stupid summer assignment, but we always do something else instead. Its a joke. Maybe the "tragic student disappearance" that I'm about to cause will give them a few more days of vacation. That will make them happy.
My parents stopped showing up at my door a while ago. They must have given up and went to work. So today is the perfect day. Mom and Dad are the kind of crowd-pleasers who spend all their money on the latest trends, and going to fancy "social gatherings", and yet they complain about the necessary things like taking me to the doctor when I'm sick. My folks don't care what I do, as long as the public doesn't know, and if the public doesn't know, they don't know. It is all a vicious cycle. You would think that because I have attempted suicide twelve other times, they would at least try to express some feeling towards their son. They didn't even go to the local ER when I slit my wrists. Instead, they called my Uncle and had him stitch me up in the bathroom.
"Hold still Roxas! And stop screaming! What will the neighbors think?"
I reach under my bed for the box I carefully wrapped like a present. Placing it on my lap I began to unfold the paper. A note lay inside the box.
Happy Early Birthday.
-Roxas
Thanks, me. Best present I have ever received. The tip of a gun might become my new favorite flavor.
