“My therapist is making me do this. Apparently the medication isn’t doing its job correctly so I have to express my feelings through a journal. I just don’t understand why everyone targets me daily, it’s not like I’m an outcast or anything… I have friends and play sports…. That’s not the way this is supposed to go. I want to crawl up in a tight ball when they go at me, or even throw a punch out of anger! But no, I just stand there like a breathless boy who is mute. Why do they put me through this?! I never speak a bad word to them or pick on them. I feel the pain jabbing at my soul like a knife cutting into an unopened gift given to a nine year old boy. I can’t take this pain anymore its affecting my life and daily actions.”
After the journal entry, I chuck my red shiny pen across my bedroom while screaming random words out of held in anger. I have the attention of nobody, if my parents actually cared about me they would be here taking care of me comforting me, not working at a lame office counting numbers and making out checks. I need to feel more pain, this internal feeling isn’t enough….I need people to see, see what they put me through. I sprint, tripping down the stairs to the kitchen. My desperateness taking over my conscience, I fling open the freezer and grab a tray of ice along with a container of salt. I pour an unreasonable amount of salt on my neck and immediately throw on the ice cube. Within three seconds I feel the heat leaving that part of my neck and the frost bite kicking in. The rush feels quite similar to when Alice fell down the rabbit hole scared not knowing where she was going, yet enjoying the journey. The salt is sizzling against my skin and my instinct is to take the salt away, but the pain is so liberating.
After two minutes, I pull the ice away looking at the burn. Its bright red, beads of blood are on the surface of the removed skin, stinging like a bee from the touch of cold air in my kitchen. I unlock my phone to see a text from my best friend. I can’t fathom what I’m reading. Instead of anger and pain, I feel sadness, like my soul is hanging on by a string. I don’t know how much longer I can take this.
With tears streaming down my face, I walk slowly towards my parent’s room like a mummy. My body is walking but my mind is somewhere else, it’s in a better place, a loving place, where everyone feels loved and welcomed. I open my dad’s cabinet, my hand shaking, my eyes feel bloodshot. If this is what my best friend who I trust and love so much is telling me to do, I’ll do it. I’ll do it for him. I reach into the cabinet and take out the handgun, I raise the pistol to my temple, studying myself in the mirror. I am a boy, about 6”, a strong athlete who thought his life was planned out, but appear weak and worthless. My cheeks are tear-stained, my hypnotizing-ocean-blue eyes are now red and veiny, and my salt and ice wound is now scarring with blood beads still on the surface. I glance one more time in the mirror with the trigger of my father’s gun unlocked, and my shaky voice croaks out my last words “You’re usel