Life was unkind, in all of my eighteen years of existence, I found nothing but misery. I was raised in a small town, just north of Sacramento, California where the only attraction was an abandoned mine and a bowling alley issuing cash prizes on Saturday nights. My parents were Catholics, the only thing they saw was the bible in their hands. My two older brothers off in the army and my little sister, only six years old, nearly burning the house down baking her 'unique' cupcakes. My extended family much bigger, I don't even recall half of my cousins' names. All that I know is that I don't fit in. My wardrobe too dark, my vocabulary too colorful, and my actions considered offensive yet the most I did at reunions was ignore and evade. Small talk is not my favorite activity.
I have no hobbies really, since freshmen year I've been that way. I didn't attend orientation and I learned fast the first day of school that everybody already had their little groups and friends. There was no room for me in this place. The school thrived on school spirit, rallies almost every week, dances every other weekends. Eventually I stopped trying so hard to please a world I had no interest in being a part of. I did nothing at that school, nobody remembered my name. Except Kevin Fetcher, he knew my name... well enough to make fun of it.
“Hey piss weed!” Kevin yells every time he sees me, every time he shoves me against a locker, or against a wall, in the halls, in the locker room, in front of the school. Every time of every day, after a while I didn't mind, it doesn't really matter what he does to me. But when it started following me home, it became too much. My parents found out and told me to ignore it, they told me if I wanted it stop than I had to use my words.
Junior Prom night, I used my words, Kevin used his fist. All of his buddies joined in, it hurt, all of it hurt. I came home with a bloody collar, my mom started to cry, my dad yelled at me for getting in a 'fight'. I still remember my hand shaking as I washed the scribble on my forehead, 'trash'. I guess I deserved it in a way, pale white skin, disconnected gray eyes and curly brown hair, too tall to hid in any crowd, but too thin and bony to attract anybody. My life wasn't a fairy tale, my life wasn't exciting. There was no reason to get up in the morning, there was no reason to try to fight.
Graduation, I separated from the others and climbed all fifty steps in the tallest building I could find. I stepped on that ledge and promised myself that this was the better option, life was always going to be filled of Kevins, life was always going to be filled of those hateful stares of distant family, but death... death wouldn't be like that. There is no God to answer to after this, there is no devil to punish me, I wouldn't have to explain myself later to my little sister, because death is nothing but darkness. No conscience, no guilt or pain.
I realize I could have stepped back. I could have waited it out, could have waited for it to get better. But I didn't and I paid for it. At first it felt like flying, a rising feeling that everything was alright now. Then I felt the crushing pain, a darkness I never knew existed, a darkness unlike the one I created for myself in life. No this was the darkness of peace, the numb after the cold, the final rest after the long day, the rise of fog over my eyes after the storm. Death at last.
The news the next day would tell the story of a boy who didn't accomplish anything in life, throw himself off a school building just an hour away from graduating from high school. Peter Welton, eighteen, six”six, only 140 pounds, committed suicide.
I wasn't supposed to feel anything now, this all was supposed to go away. Why was I wrong? Why didn't it work? Why did I condemn myself to this world?
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