5I hear it so often that it has no positive meaning anymore. "What'd you get on the test, another perfect?" "Oh my god, your writing's so perfect." "Of course Miss Perfect made the cut."
It makes me want to scream. Scream as loud as I can I'm not perfect!Because I'm not. Perfect people have friends that they can actually talk to. Perfect people never get depressed. Perfect people are always happy to achieve perfection. Perfect people thrive on pressure.
Perfect people don't want to die.
And I do.
I have for a while. Just passing moments at first, and then slowly, those moments stretched and became more concentrated. What would be the easiest way to die? The least painful? Should I leave a note for my parents? For Amy? For Colin? Slowly a plan began to form in my head. Time, place, method. And this is why I'm standing in my kitchen having begged off school sick today, with a letter to Mom and Dad on the refrigerator, and a sharp paring knife in my hand.
I stare at my bare wrists. They look so empty without my watch and at least one bracelet. It strikes me with the absence of these small things the enormity of what I plan to do. However, I don't hesitate as I bring the knife in my left hand to my right wristbone, and slowly slit the soft skin of my forearm towards my elbow.
Immediately, a line of blood wells up where I made the cut. I feel very little pain. It is almost as if I am watching myself in a dream as I transfer the knife to my right hand and clumsily repeat the motion. I should have done my left arm first. I'm not used to using my right hand.
The blood comes, steadily, faster than I thought. I guess that's why this is an effective way to take your own life. Before you know it, you feel tired, then you black out. At this point, there is still no pain, but the way I feel everything else has sharpened. The red liquid trickling down my arm. The towels and plastic that I am sitting on for easy cleanup. Time has stopped. I am focused on nothing but my arms.
The phone rings. In the silence of the house, it seems to be screaming at me. It jars me from my audience state, and for the first time I feel a dull ache where the cuts are. Who would call at a time like this? But of course for the rest of the world it is a regular day. And it is probably Mom on the other end checking on me. And if I don't pick up she'll think something's wrong and come home. Damn concerned parents.
I haul myself over to the phone and pick up. My body feels heavier than it should. Blood drips on to the floor. My blood. I lean over to grab a towel and wipe it up at the same time I answer.
"Hello?"
"Feeling better?"
I take it back. Forget concerned parents. Damn bored friends on extended lunch.
"Kinda. Amy this is a really bad time for..."
But it's no use. She's off, as only a bored gossip queen talking to a captive listener can be. Forcing her voice to the background I check on my arms. Still bleeding. I'm starting to fell lightheaded. This is a good sign. Now I have to get rid of the mouthpiece on the other end of the line.
"Look Ames, I feel really crappy today (what an understatement) and I was just grabbing some sleep (haha) when you called, sooo..."
"Oh my god, I'm an idiot, I'm so sorry. I'll let you go back to bed. Oh yeah, Kyle says thanks, okay? You can tell him I remembered."
Kyle. An image swims to the surface of my increaingly fuzzy brain. One of a shy boy who sits behind me in math.
"Kyle? Thanks? What for?"
"For the help you gave him studying for that exam. He told me to tell you he pulled a 75 and he would have failed if it wasn't for you."
Two things click in my brain simutaneously. The first is the memory of spending an entire Saturday at Kyle's house, quizzing him, assigning him questions, explaining things until 10 pm. At that point I went home picked up the phone and talked him through the work until midnight. He was one of the nicest people I knew. One of the most talented poets and pathetic mathematicians. He had a forty going into that final and he desperately needed to show his aunt a pass. I volunteered to coach him.
The second thing that clicks is that I really am having second thoughts about dying.
What seemed like a good idea now feels so stupid. At least if I'm alive I can help other people. Some people never have a choice about when they die. That's why Kyle's name made it click. He lives with his aunt because his parents were hit by a drunk driver at Christmas last year. They never got a chance to tell their only son goodbye.
At that moment I make my decision and come back to the sound of my friend's voice.
"...he had a flower to give you and everything. He was really upset that you..."
"Amy call 9-1-1."
She pauses to digest what I just said. When she speaks again, it is as if she thinks she misheard me. I don't blame her.
"What?"
"I said call 9-1-1."
I take a deep breath and say the words that will put me into a year of counselling, back among people who now stare when I pass...and will keep me alive.
"I think I need help."