A/N: This kind of sucks, but bear with me. I'm a bit new at this.

To whom it may concern:

My name is Gabriel.

I am nineteen years old and in exactly one week I am going to die.

No, I am not clairvoyant. I don't know much about anything, really.

I know this fact - this undisputable certainty - because it is not some vague idea or feeling of doom, nor is it a premonition or vision. It simply is.

That is the thing about death. You can't do it half-assed, half-way. You can either be here or you can be gone. No second-guesses are allowed. Certainty.

My mother always told me that I saw the world in black and white. When I was little - so small I could still fit in her lap and had to stand on my tippy-toes to nab the cookies - I would smile in response and snatch a handful of grass from the ground, hold it up proudly, and exclaim, "No, this is green!" And then I would point my pudgy finger towards the sky and shout towards the heavens, "Blue!" And so on.

She would laugh and lift me up; I would kiss her cheek. And that was enough. She was the certainty holding me together, the undeniable fact that no matter what, I would always have her. She was constant.

Life is funny.

On my thirteenth birthday I was walking home - slowly, looking at the clouds - and came across cop cars and loud, piercing sirens.

My mother was dead.

She was murdered.

By my father.

There is a story behind this that I should probably tell you, but I won't. It doesn't matter in the end. Their names, their lives, their thoughts - or my own, for that matter - no longer are significant. Because they are dead and gone; and soon I will be as well.

What does matter is Christian. He's my friend. He has dark blue eyes that glint grey in the sunlight, and a killer laugh that sounds mocking but isn't. He held my hand at my mother's funeral, he protected me from losers with issues, and he was... I don't know... there. Always.

When I was sixteen I kissed him. We were watching TV in my room, on my bed, and he stole the popcorn. I watched him pop each kernel into his mouth, crunching obnoxiously, grinning. I didn't attempt to get it back, mesmerized for no reason. I had an epiphany that day. And when his hand was half-raised, mouth half-open, I kissed him. Quickly, sloppily, but I think I got my point across.

I remember salty lips on mine and butter-slicked fingers in my hair. I remember his stormy eyes opened wide. I remember the door slamming shut after his rapid departure, and how that sound was muffled by the screaming in my head. Regret, fear. I don't know.

I ignored him after that. I was so stupid and afraid I had ruined everything. I talked to him, but it was never anything more than to get homework answers or to ask him if he watched the game. His laughs were contrived, his smiles hiding grimaces. And I was empty, too far gone to feel my pathetic broken heart any longer.

This is a tangent, by the way, dear reader. Because even that wasn't enough to break me.

I'm telling you about him because he deserves to be remembered. Even know, if he knew, he would come to me immediately, arms outstretched. He would fly across the country without a thought if I even hinted what I was planning.

You don't know this but right now my cheeks are wet from tears. It's bothering me. I don't cry. Not once, not ever. What makes this moment so special? Why begin to feel right when it doesn't matter anymore. This isn't about emotions -depression, heartache- it simply is.

I'm repeating myself.

This is a calculated development. I'm not a whiny emo kid who curses the world for wronging him. I haven't once cut myself. I don't do drugs. I don't do much of anything...

But I don't want to qualify myself. I'm not trying to rationalize this.

I just want to explain. Or at least try to.

Goddammit - I had points and an argument to defend my actions. I had logic in my mind. And now I find that logic hollow. Fake. My reasons are no longer passionate proclamations but weak attempts at defending actions that are undefendable.


This is the first time I have been able to think of exactly what this is. Suicide.

I don't want to be another statistic, because I have read many statistics concerning it. Once, a long time ago, I watched a documentary on people who committed suicide by jumping off the Golden Gate bridge. One after the other - old, young, female, male, pretty, ugly - they plunged to their deaths. The actual fall wasn't what had me mesmerized, my eyes glued to the TV, it was directly before they jumped. Their faces as they stared downwards, their body language. They seemed so sure. They seemed special.

I am surprised at myself, reader. I am normally so strong and steady, and yet my hands are shaking as I hold this paper. I falter and the ink begins to bleed into the paper, smudging the words incomprehensible. My mother's face is imprinted in my mind and my words of her taunt me. I had not thought of her in so long, I wonder why I even put her in here. In this letter. I wonder why I am writing this at all.

Am I afraid? I had not thought much about being afraid before. What am I to fear? I do not believe in heaven, or hell. The idea of God is nothing to me. There is no afterlife. Only nothingness. And after everything that is what I crave most.

I want - no, I need - to have this all be over; this doubt ingrained in my mind; this hate that bubbles up in me when I think of my life, or when I think of myself.

But, wait, that is not my point. As I said, this is not about emotions.

Reader, I can't help to question my own motives now, as it is getting late and my pen is furiously ghosting across the thin white sheets of computer paper, as if having a mind of its own.

As I write of my life I feel a sickness deep within my chest and stomach. A kind of pain I cannot get rid of by rubbing my palm across it soothingly, or by any sort of medicine. It is an obstinate feeling, and it hurts. Oh Lord, it hurts.

This is no time to regress or question. I need to be sure and steadfast.

I can't believe this. And now the anger builds inside of me and I have the urge to hit something. I am never violent. Not even when Johnny Turner called me a fag in the eighth grade and kicked sand in my face. Not even when Christian told me he was moving to California. Not even when my father looked at me through the glass barrier and told me my mother never loved me.

This can't be happening. No. No. NO!

I will do it. Now, I will do it. Not in a week. Now, before my resolve fades.

But, fuck, it's all over, isn't it?

That's the thing about death. It's a one-way ticket. And if you're not certain, not absolutely sure, for the love of God don't get on that train.

Life is too precious (however cliché that sounds) to throw away in a fit of blind passion, without thinking things through completely. It is a sacrifice that one should consider before taking the plunge.

All in all, life is good. Trust me. I am not cynical or desperate. I just am. I know my fate.

I have mulled this over in my mind for quite a long time now. And I had decided that I could handle never smelling the roses or seeing the sky – or all that bullshit – ever again. I know I will never get to tell Christian how I feel. Love is overrated, anyway.

Really, I was certain. I mean, I am certain. I know what I'm doing. I think. I hope…

It will all be over soon. Goodbye, I guess. And, thanks for reading. Whoever cares enough to read this, anyway. It isn't much, but it's all I've got.

Yours truly,

Gabriel Marx, the 1st of December, 1999. Dawn.

A/N: This is a fairly odd story and I'd appreciate constructive criticism. For one, I know my grammar probably isn't the best. I'd also like to know if the letter format worked for this. And, yeah, just general thoughts.