Thursday, Eighteenth of September

Coming home from a suicide attempt means nothing in your life is the same.

The car ride home from the hospital was painfully silent. Every so often Mom would look over at me to make sure I didn't open the car door and jump out, but other than that there was no attempt at conversation. I mean what do you say to a person after something like this?

"Hey mom, I wish I was dead right now!"

"Gee, son. Why would you wish that?"

"Because I have no talent and no future!"

Luckily, she, along with every one else, was under the impression that my attempt at taking my own life was just a drunken impulse and that I wouldn't try it again any time soon.

Of course, that was excluding Claire, who had conveniently been too busy with school to come visit her best friend in the hospital. But I didn't blame her. I'd be mad at me too.

When we got home, my mom told me she loved me and that she was here if I needed to talk.

But I wouldn't.

I would just walk down the hall to my same old room and fall backwards onto my same old bed. The familiar security frustrated me. Not a single thing had been touched since I had left. Everything was in the same place, yet everything felt so different.

I'd always heard a near-death experience could change a person's life.

Staring at the ceiling, I sighed and closed my eyes.

In that moment, I prayed with all my heart to whatever supreme deity ruled over us that this would prove to be a positive change.

But I knew different.

Untitled

My fingers itch. My heart races. My hand steadies. My eyes close.

Those blue eyes are burnt into my mind, but for the first time in a week, I'm not angry to see them there.

I just pull the trigger.

BAM!

Bliss.

Foreword

The blog have you just stumbled on is entirely fiction. In fact, its author is a fifteen year-old girl in contrast to the seventeen year-old boy narrator.

I came up for the idea for this story last year in Honors Ancient History. A couple weeks ago, I found the few entries I'd written for it and decided to see if I could finish it. But I'd been having trouble writing it on Word. Then it came to me.

It's written as a journal. So why not write it like one?

So here it is. Diary of a Dead Boy. I'm working on a better name for it.