We Watched the City Burn

Chapter 31

CH 31

It’s in the middle of working through the mountain of homework that it hits me. I will never be anything at all, nothing of value, now or ever. Nothing I do matters, and it doesn’t matter where I live or if the girl I like kisses me and tells me I’m cute. Nothing will ever take this away, this pain, the loneliness. I don’t feel sorry for myself, because that would imply that something lives and breathes beneath my skin.

I am empty, shelled out, running on borrowed energy, and at some point, my supply of power was going to dry up.

It was now just a matter of waiting, waiting for my tank to empty and see where I ended up falling down, finally at my end. Something inside me knows that I don’t have much longer, not that I expect some terrible twist of fate to do me in; no it’s not like that at all. I want some control over something in my life, I want a say in what happens to me. I don’t have a lot of other things to make a play for, and this seems like the best out of all those possibilities.

I don’t want to exist anymore, it’s just that simple. Now that I know what I plan to do, it’s just a matter of nailing down the fine details, the when, where, hows. Should I leave a note behind explaining myself, or will I let others fill in the blanks? Tell Aurora? These are the things I busy myself with; I ignore commands from teachers for missing work, I choke down meals and force cracked smiles so no one can suspect anything. If they think something’s up, they’ll take this away from me and force me to stay.

I want secrets; I want to escape, to float away into space with no one else trying to hold me down. I was never a part of this world anyway, not really. I lived under this sky, this sun, I walked the same paths as thousands of others, but I was never really alive. I know that now.  I see no reason to go through the motions anymore, nothing good will come of it, and even if there was promise for my future, the idea of living longer than I must makes me sick to my stomach.

I’m not afraid of dying, or what comes after; I’m afraid of living, I’ll admit to that. But fear isn’t my prim motivator, it’s not the backbone of my thoughts, nor the things that’s knocked me from the edge. It’s merely one of hundreds of elements, independently contributing to my hopelessness and world-weariness.

I make no moves to blame others for the choice that I plan to make.  Sure my mother left me with my drunk, abusive, rapist father, but she isn’t going to be the one ending everything. I am.

To try and blame anyone else is pointless, I don’t want to anyway. I want it known that this was the choice I made, yes, things were getting better and people had reached out to help me. I appreciated that, I appreciated them, I really did. But it was too late. It was just too fucking late for me, and that’s not anyone’s fault.

That’s just the hand I was dealt, it’s just the live I was given and this is how I plan to take control. I’m taking what little power I have left, and I’m letting it be known that I’ve had enough. I’m tired, and I don’t want to go on anymore. They say suicide is selfish, but what’s worse: Suicide, or making someone stay, when they can’t take it anymore?