It all made perfect sense. Conclusions so absolute and comprehensive were hard to come by, so I knew I had something good going for me. What a brilliantly fucked up ending to an already fucked up beginning. I wasn't sure how I was going to pull this whole thing off, but I sure as Hell wasn't going to let this fester and develop into some greater, fiendish monster.

I wanted that end. And I didn't want to think about things any longer. Sure, it was easier to give up and die; it's the simple and cowardly thing to do. But I was never one to bother with doomed activities. And the only logical thing to do in this situation was not to bother because it's not like it's still a fashion to live in torment. Which is why here I am.

The events leading up to this day are foggy at best. There was a guy at school, someone I tried really hard to forget about, but love won't let you go that easily. I did some stupid, impulsive things and everyone else found out. So, my reputation is shot to the fucking wind, I wouldn't be able to get a girlfriend to save my life, and the one I love has denounced me in front of the entire world, it feels like. I guess I'd only be describing the stupid details if I told you my dad—the one who told me he'd love me no matter what I did or wanted to do—wanted me out of the house, saying "I didn't raise any God-damned faggots!"

"I wish you hadn't had to, Dad," I chuckled to myself, half witless and half out of frustration. Oh, of course they let me back into the house and things returned to be about as normal as they would get since I was a 'confessed sinner', as my mom liked to point out. Which was fine by me. It wasn't like I owned anything good enough to end my life with. See, my dad loved hunting and I believe he was so vehement in his words to me, because he dabbled in the ol' Brokeback himself. Dad always liked big guns.

Choices, life was all about 'em. Mostly it's paper or plastic, white wine or red wine, tennis shoes or sandals, deal or no deal. For me, it was .45 or .22 caliber? What did I want more, my brains splattered on the wall or a clean, minimal-blood spray shot? "Depends," I hadn't realized I'd begun talking out loud until I finished the sentence, "when was the last time Mom painted the walls?" If anything, at least the thick, tough-to-remove DNA stains would piss her off.

I settled with the .45 and set to work on picking the lock; Dad knew how to hide keys pretty damn well. To be practical, yeah, I should've just broken the fucking glass of the gun case, but I wasn't going to take the chance of someone hearing it and waking up to stop me. Once that cold, silver bullet was in my head, I wasn't going to care about who heard me die. The gunshot would be the noise to wake them up, if anything.

The more time it took to pick the lock, the more frustration I could feel building up inside my chest, driving me to the point of tears. "Picking locks isn't any good when you can't even see what you're doing because of your own damn tears, Chase." Talking to myself again, figures. Don't let anybody ever tell you a suicidal teenage boy who talks to himself isn't the least bit crazy.

I had thoughts. The whole time I was plotting my demise, I was thinking about what it meant. Irreversible, permanent, the end. I wasn't coming back and the only place I was headed for was Hell—if I even believed in God, that is. I don't think at any point I felt guilty for doing this to my parents. They didn't care. Two successful, wealthy adults didn't care about that useless, money-gobbling broken condemn. 'Cause that's all I was, right? Some mistake to be kicked around and spit on any chance people got.

When you peeled away the surface and looked at the muscle underneath, it was old and tired and worn out. I fucking hate my life and I'm tired of living, seventeen years is a long time to think. A long damn time indeed. If I learned anything from life is that it makes no sense in the end, there is no point in living to begin with, and you're only here on earth for someone else's enjoyment.

The gun was out and loaded, I was crying as I wrote the note to Theo, the only one in the world I loved:


Maybe the way I approached things was a little bit too forward and my actions and intentions were very much in your face. I hadn't meant it, but you may never understand that. I've always known you to be hard-headed. It's not possible for you to tell me now, but if I had told you in a subtler way, would things be different? Would you have loved me on the side and not cared if anyone found out? If your answer is no, then be happy you can't tell me. Because this would have happened anyway. There's not enough room on this paper to describe how much I care about you and there wouldn't have been enough time in the world for me to have shown you. I can't express enough how deeply sorry I am that I abandoned all rhyme and reason that day after football practice. But I'm not sorry that I abandoned the morals of a faulty society to let you know how crazy I am about you. As you always said: Keep smiling, kid.


Maybe that would make him cry. Or more likely make him scowl in disgust and throw it in the trash can, a crumpled mess never to see the light of day again. Since I was about to kill myself and those would be the last words of mine he saw, I would hope he'd at least try to understand. Love is a wild entity, it knows no boundaries and it knows no sexual discrimination. Hopefully my words would reach him.

I feel the cold muzzle of the gun in my mouth as it clatters against my teeth. I can't help but shake and tremble. My thoughts are racing at a speed that's never been clocked. Tears are building in my eyes, and then fall down my face in a vicious race to see who will get to my chin before I pull the trigger. How easy and light the trigger feels against my thumb. The cold metal is shouting my name in a morbid dance to the rhythm of my heartbeat.

In a frenzy of adrenaline and last-minute cold feet, I pull the muzzle out of my mouth—a trail of spit follows it as I stare at it in mental agony. I bit down on my tongue hard enough that in a few seconds I feel the warm answer of blood squeeze out to coat my mouth. I grit my teeth, I clench my eyes, I grip the gun's handle in one hand and my suicide note in the other.

In a bitter moment of 'now or never', I realize I have to do this and gripping the paper so tightly in my hand it hurts, I shove the muzzle back into my mouth and clench my eyes shut tighter, afraid that just looking at the gun will set it off.

I smile back immediately against the ginning, happy imagine of Theo on my eyelids.

Theo, I love you. I smile and relax my grip on the note, unclench my eyes and relax back into my chair.

I pull the trigger.