I stay up all night, wondering if I’ve lost my mind. I hold the gun that Blake had given me against my chest and ponder if I should use it on myself or not.
Seems like it would be easy. Just pull the trigger and shoot. I’d be dead and it’d be over with. I’d be away from my miserable life and no one would even care. I certainly don’t. I’ve never cared all like that. Living is nothing but a headache anyway. I didn’t ask for this life. I didn’t ask to be born. I didn’t ask to be white, I didn’t ask to be gay, I didn’t ask to be tormented. No one asks for any of these things.
The gun rests gently on my chest and it’s so tempting to use. I really want to use it. Tears run down my face and my heartbeat quickens when I put the gun to my head. I want everyone in this household to hear it. I want everyone in this household to fall apart when they see my red, lifeless body fading away into nothingness. Who knows if there’s an afterlife? I hope there’s not an afterlife. I’m tired of living as is.
The gun is against my head. I am wheezing at this point. I think of Blake and the blood and the stolen car. I think of Colton and his rejection and the years I’ve been called a faggot. I think of Antonio and the party and Brandon and how my parents turn a blind eye to everything. All these dark demons of mine float to the surface and drown me in my own tears.
The gun is against my head. I decide to count to three. Maybe it’ll be easier this way. I give myself a mental countdown. On the count of three, I will pull the trigger. It feels almost exhilarating to a degree, knowing that I’m about to die. But it feels more terrifying. Antsy. Doubt scoops me up and spits me out and I don’t know what I’m doing anymore.
Is offing myself absolutely selfish and going against the “bold Ron” that I’m striving for? Most definitely. Am I unsure of everything? Always. And this is ultimately why I hate myself.
I clench my eyes shut, feeling my brain pounding against my head. The silence does no justice in shielding my sobs. Yes, I sob. Hard, loud, and proud.
The gun finds itself back in the depths of my bedroom, locked away in a secret compartment. I feel disgusting for even attempting such an action. Everything feels disgusting.
I am disgusting.
And lost, and angry, and wondering why I was ever born. There is no happy place for me here. There just isn’t. I tried to take control of my life by joining Blake’s gang, but that made everything worse. I am not worthy enough to be one of them. I should’ve stayed in my place and allowed the torment to continue.
“Shut up!” I scream at myself through clenched teeth. “You stupid, worthless, coward!”
All my sanity has left the building. I am going crazy now.
Voices in my head tell me to grab it again. The gun. Make it happen. What’s to be afraid of?
But guns are easy. Too easy. I want to man up. I want this to hurt a little.
“Where’s my blade? Where’d I put the damn blade?”
I haven’t had to cut myself in awhile, but this opportunity was too good not to cease. It was the perfect method for strengthening myself. And I wouldn’t have to die. Dying is selfish. Bold Ron wouldn’t want to die. I can’t think about dying.
But I can make myself man up.
I find the blade cutter at the bottom of a storage bin of mine. It still has old blood dried to a crisp on it. This doesn’t faze me. It’s no one else’s but mine.
I go inside my bathroom with it. I am too eager to cut myself. I have to toughen up. There’s no other option.
I clench my teeth and hold in a spine-aching cry when I slash the blade across my left forearm in a neat, straight line. The blood starts dripping. It’s actually kind of beautiful to look at. Velvet streams of fluid make a mess all over my lap and the floor. This is okay though. This helps me toughen up.
I make another slash. And another slash. Before I know it, deep-rooted lines are all over my arm in disturbing, bubbling lines of blood. My left arm is shaking uncontrollably. Blood is leaking everywhere. I start to cry. It feels so good yet hurts so much. My razor cutter is fresh with my blood and I grow so weak and tired that I can’t even slash myself anymore. I think I’ve slashed myself fifteen times, sometimes in the same places, just going a little deeper.
My heart feels heavy and my chest feels hollow. The overly white bathroom is giving me a migraine. Nerves are twitching like a coke addict in my system and I wonder if that’s because I’m bleeding to death.
I am wailing at this point, watching myself bleed all over the place. I consider stabbing myself just to make it all stop hurting. But I’m bleeding too bad. My arm has fallen weak.
I can’t stop crying. I can’t stop screaming.
“MOOOM! DAAAD! EMILY!”
My arm is unbearable to look at at this point. I turn my head to look in the mirror that is positioned a little above me. I catch sight of someone who looks at me with bright blue eyes and the happiest smile on their face.
It is my sister, Emily. In the photograph that’s been taped to the edge of my mirror, I see a five-year-old Emily smiling brightly at the camera. She is on top of a 12-year-old Ron’s back, squeezing the life out of my neck as she holds on for dear life. I am the one holding her up, a smile on my face with my blue eyes just as bright and lovely as hers.
This was taken three years ago at the city park. My mom was the one who took the photo. She loved how sunny it was that day and wanted to get a good picture of Emily and I having serious sibling bonding time. She ended up being so proud of how the picture turned out.
“My beautiful children,” she had gushed, glowing in the sun’s natural light.
And here I am, her beautiful child, three years later, bleeding to death in front of the happier me. This makes me stop crying and I stare instead.
In the actual mirror, I am pale and slowly turning blue in the face. My hair is a sweaty mess and my clothes are stained with the abhorrence of my blood. I temporarily forget that I am dying. The pain seems to go away. I am baffled, trying to figure out where I went wrong in life.
I am slowly losing focus on what’s real and what’s not. My heartbeat is palpitating slower and slower. Death is not that far, as I lie against the coolness of my tile walls, letting the streams of blood turn sticky on my skin.
I think of Emily, and how much I love her. Maybe her fantasy of Blake and I will never come true. I think of my parents, and how they have partially failed me for not accepting who I am. I think of the gang, and how I haven’t known them for long, but somehow, a bond is still there.
And last but not least, I think of myself, and how I was never nice to my body. I never once told myself I looked handsome in a particular t-shirt and I have never given myself enough dignity to look past all the petty bullying and nonstop pestering and never standing up for myself. Who else is there to really blame? At the end of the day, I have failed myself.
Before I die on this floor, I do myself a favor. For once, I look myself in the eyes, crack the smallest smile I can manage through all these wounds, and say, genuinely, “I’m so sorry Ronald. I have put you through so much hate and abuse.”
“Ronald? Ronald!” my mother shouts, banging on my door. I forgot I had locked it. Now they have trouble getting in.
“No matter how much I think I change, I always wound back up to my same, troubled self.”
“Ronald!” my father shouts, voice filled with alarming hysteria. “Open the door kid!”
“A-And I just want to say that I love you, and that I think you’re great to an extent,” I cry softly, feeling my heartbeat pound even slower than before. I’m most likely on my last few minutes.
“RONALD!” I see my mother shrieking in front of me.
Turns out my dad had knocked down my door and everyone barged in while I was on my last words. I do not have enough energy to keep talking. I barely have enough energy to stay alive.
Is this what dying feels like? Like you’re slowly falling asleep?
Before I take my last breath, I see a pair of crying blue eyes staring at me while holding a pillow to her chest. It is Emily of course. Mom and Dad are keeping me alive and calling the ambulance as I think. Emily doesn’t understand why I did this to myself. Her eyes say it all. And when I feel my heart finally stop and when the walls diminish into nothing but a peaceful blackness, I say to everyone, “I’m sorry.”