If you’re here, then I guess you want to see the loner blow his brains out right?
I’m sitting underneath my desk right now. At sixteen I still have the same regressive instinct that I’ve had since I was five. I’m ashamed to admit it, but I’m crying. I can’t take it anymore. I keep thinking about today, about everyday. They all blurr into one big pile of shit.
Well, here’s a piece of my life. There’s not enough room to tell it all. I walk in the double doors of my school and head towards my locker which now has devel worshipper and faggot spray painted on it. You’d think the idiots who put it on there would at least be able to spell devil right, but no it reads d-e-v-e-l. Oh, well. I keep my head down as I head to class. I prefer not to look into someone else’s eyes.
Is it because I’m afraid of what I’ll see in their eyes? Or what they might see in mine? I keep a lot of secrets.
I go to lunch and sit with my “friends.” We usually sit at the table together because we have no one else to sit with. It’s always better than sitting alone. Jessica is talking about her latest fuck, and last night’s booty call. Dorothy is whining about something someone said to her. She’s easily insulted and always complaining.
I don’t say anything. I sit quietly just as I’m expected to do. When I was in junior high some kids onced asked me if I was mute. I laughed silently to myself and said nothing.
I guess I never liked people, and they never really liked me. I got into lots of fights when I was in junior high. Those were the good days. At least I wasn’t invisible then.
I tried talking to people for a while in highschool. Maybe my freshmen year. No one listened. No one cared so I stopped trying.
Even my parents lost sight of me. They have Abby. Abby is perfect. Why would they want me? I’m just that fuck-up who reads to many damned mad-slasher novels and listens to that damned gothic-punk crap.
I say life just isn’t worth living if you don’t exist. Sometimes I wonder if maybe they’ll remember me when I’m gone. Maybe I’ll be lucky enough to get one of those “good samaritan” friends who says how I tried to better the world and I was his best friend, when in reality he didn’t even know me. I’m sure you know the type.
My dad had a .45 mm pistol in the side drawer of his night stand. It’s in my hand right now. Maybe if someone had talked to me once…Smiled…Or just said “Hi.”
Now the only decision left is whether or not to leave a note…