I am posting the first 4 chapters of my novel, for free. It is published, but I'm more concerned with people reading it than I am with making tons of money. Not that tons of money wouldn't be great.
I began writing Euthanasia when I was 15, and finished it when I was 18. Since then, it has been published, edited, re-published, and I can't seem to ever stop adding to it.
Euthanasia is a psychological drama/thriller surrounding 7 suicide pact signers, mainly Erika and Lewis, the writers of the journals that create the novel.
Erika is the creator of the Pact. Empathy is foreign to her, and she lacks communication skills and social skills almost entirely other than playing the part of someone people go to for advice and consolation. Despite her strangeness, she manages to get six people to sign her Pact by pinpointing their weaknesses.
Lewis is Erika's best friend and romantic interest. He has PTSD and a temper issue. He goes out of his way to protect Erika, but his conscience is constantly at war with this due to her anti-social behaviors. He is an extremely funny person although this goes unnoticed by Erika.
Today I have officially succeeded in persuading the seventh friend to sign the Pact. I will record what happens from now, October 1, 2007, and when the Pact and all of its meticulous plans go into action. Afterwards, I will not need to write about it. Everyone will know, when they find this, who they were fucking with. And who is haunting them. If I were to ever have been invisible as I so often have wished I was, this would be my grand appearance as a being of existence; the time will come where they will see me. See through me and my glasses of a pinkish shade. One may call it seeing red. My entries will be interlaced with those of my closest, dearest friend, Lewis, exchanging every other day, as arranged, to create a more diverse record of what happens throughout the longevity of the Pact and also to give me more time for reflection and action. We have it all planned out perfectly. All of us here at the Pact are in awe of the perpetual and planned release.
The final person to sign the Pact was, as I partially entertained, Lewis. He seemed a bit shocked when I spoke to him of it in the middle of mathematics class; he had been nearly drooling in boredom when I saw the cuts on his arm. I had been waiting for such a sign from him. He seemed even more taken indignant when I actually let him read the Pact. I simply can not deal with the ever-present eye-rolling he presents me with upon each new idea. He calls me scandalous. I am only slightly taken aback by his reaction; you would think, after being my sometimes reluctant best friend for thirteen years, that he would expect something as such from me. He must have forgotten the countless hours we have spent planning our perfect and nearly-theatrical suicides. I have always been, in his words, “a bit off.” If being a bit off includes being more intelligent, more aware, although outwardly isolated, I suppose I got the sharper and more efficient end of the stick; I can play the part of a bit off. He has generally been more down to Earth in the eyes of the rest of humanity, and even stable in the days before he was thirteen. He is definitely a depressed and secretly morose individual, although I highly doubt it is any form of chemical imbalance. He has good reasons to be down if there is such an actual reason for any fucking emotion; everyone does, as it so seems in these days of excessive worry and over-diagnostics of various emotional disturbances and personality “disorders,” and over-medication leading to dependence on mere poison to make it through a simple day in a world of fragility and opium. Alas, the idea of a Pact probably did not appeal to him at first because it involved other people being “injured” as well. Zero flair for anything grandiose. It would always bother him. Lewis has the burden of a strong conscience. What a sin it is to him to involve the “innocent” in such a supposed charade as I have planned. In class, though, he could not question me nor inquire too much without others hearing. He has that kind of voice, one that carries distances beyond what he would so prefer if he were aware. Luckily, mine does not carry even though I try. Nosey and vile young females were already watching us and dissecting me from head to toe, although I do not worry myself with such obvious displays of jealousy. Why is it so that high school girls so incredibly gravity-ridden? They should hope this is not their prime. If I were the betting type, however, I would say it is so, especially in Seitseville. I have seen the women working in the gas stations and the diners and I know each of these sheep has to have some brand of future.
“Are you seriously getting people to sign a Pact? Can you please explain the point? No…I am going to pretend I didn’t see this and you can just... rip it up. Rip it up now.” Lewis looked at me through his bangs with sarcastic disbelief, as if I had just burped incredibly loud. Then he looked up at me with captivating gray eyes, and I forced myself to not glance away. That would show weakness and he simply had to sign the Pact. It would be for the best that my cheeks avoid changing colors, because Lewis should never, ever know that I have any feelings for him. Even so, I would ignore elementary questioning as always.
“Yes. And you have no place to look at me as immoral, the way you are, considering those gashes are more intravenous than anything I have ever done,” I replied. “Hurting yourself is, by default, the same thing as hurting others. Only your way includes a lie by omission. I bet it would hurt your poor, already grief-stricken mothers’ feelings, if she knew.” After giving me a “don’t go there,” look, he continued to gaze at the piece of paper, deep in thought. I watched him. Several long, relatively deep cuts, obviously done with a razor, were on his right arm, covered by nothing considering he was socially careless enough to roll his sleeves up. Such a dumb blonde! I assume he used one of those box cutters he leaves all scattered about his room when no one is coming over, other than me. The cuts were vertical, fresh, so I assumed he had committed the attempt on the night before. He had tried it many tedious times – I had usually tried to stop him. I have spent, in my days, countless hours rationalizing with him that he should not act upon his impulses, upon his inability to see a light which he so desires, at the end of the so-called tunnel of his shattered life. Seeing as how my own beliefs about life and our destiny over it differ from my lectures toward him -my cradling - I sometimes confuse myself when he becomes suicidal. I can die, our friends can die, we all die, but not Lewis. And not until I say so. Deep down I know he is too much a coward to actually press hard enough. If you want to die by a hand of which is your own, you will. This time he had not told me, which bothered me as much as the fact that he tried it at all. Most successful attempts leave no note. What is the sort of friend who leaves me behind?
“Yeah, but this is me. I'm not going and talking people who are depressed, which we all know are depressed, into signing up for death. I keep my issues to myself.”
“No you do not; your sleeve is rolled up, asshole. I am only offering these miserable people a way out of their everlasting pain. I am like Gandhi.”
“You are so far from being Gandhi...” Lewis rolled his eyes at me. “Kevorkian, maybe.” I had been waiting for it... “Erika... are you serious about all of this?” He sighed and lost his attempt at confidence or arrogance, which he often would try to use against me. His body language shifted nervously, looking around to be sure no one was paying close attention.
“Completely.” After several moments of looking at the Pact, and then back at me, and back again as a cat watching windshield wipers, disarraying his now jaw-length dark blonde hair, as he does so often when nervous or tested, he nodded yes.
“I don’t want to be here anymore…I'll sign it. Efficient a way as any, I guess.” I handed him a pen. It was the same pen I and the others used. It is important that the Pact looks professional, so when they find it, this whole deal will not look like a fucking idiot led the other idiots to the water and drowned them. They will know in finality that I am a genius, not simply a dreamer.
“That is what I thought. You will thank me in the end…Thank you, Lewis...” I was hugging myself tightly, freezing inside somehow. I could feel myself shuddering. This had happened a lot lately. I read that it is part of the grieving cycle; however, I do not believe I am grief stricken in nearly a strong a fashion as one of the human species should be. I feel sad a bit, but I have never been as shiny-happy as I had been since the friends I chose began signing the Pact. I believe it is my inability to access much food, as has become an issue since the passing of my grandmother, which is making me cold as it is worsening my anemia. I have adjusted to the floating feeling and am growing rather fond of it.
“Are you okay?”
“I am fine. Just freezing.”
“How? You look like an Eskimo today.”
“Thanks. That is a racial slur, mind you. Their preference is the term “Inuit.”
“I meant you have on a lot of clothing, smart ass. Suddenly worried about slurs and shit...”
“Oh, I know. I have hardly an ounce of skin pigment.” He smiled. I wore a short denim skirt with black thigh-high socks and a black and navy-blue, hooded sweatshirt with a pink camisole underneath. This is how I usually dress when the temperature changes, while the other girls still wear flip-flops and show their scar-less arms. Lewis looked at me curiously. I read his signature on the Pact. It was beneath everyone else', of course, because it took me so long to work up to asking him to sign it. He is the most intelligent of the people who signed it, besides myself, and he has a habit of challenging me and my ideas. But he really did not today. Depression will do that to even the most assertive, the most intelligent. Depression has become a trend, which is probably why talking the others into signing this was so easy. I am not quite done getting their minds in the right place, but trend followers are sheep any way I look at it. I am not jaded, I’m just illuminated.
So now that the Pact is completed, I have seven names. Erika Cohen, Miriam Lodge, Tommy Smith, Francis Jacques, Robin Cross, Joshua Bellmen, and Lewis Ellington. My name and his lock in the other five securely.
I have seven people. Lewis was my main fixation, as far as signing this masterpiece. He has to come with me. We have done everything together. He is my best friend. He will be forever. I notice way too much about him; I always have. Like how he went from being a lanky, skinny guy when we were younger into what he is now; tall, thin and slightly muscular, tan… He has a strong jaw that makes him look like a little military guy if it weren't for his preference for longer hair. His nose curves upward and his face is lightly freckled. The people who can look beyond his temper, anxiousness and melancholy, which can sometimes be alarmingly apparent, always love him. What he is now appeals to quite a few people, which is certainly not okay with me. No way, no how.
Kathleen Harvey is definitely on my hit list before we act upon our plans. I cannot stand her. I see her every day in the hall or at lunch, talking to some jock moron, in her high heels and cheer leading ribbon, giving me dirty, bitchy, disgusting looks. I have said nothing to this girl in over three years, and I definitely think it is time for her to give looks to someone else (or to a coffin lid, in my preference), and stop telling people that I am a sociopath and necrophiliac, simply based on an isolated incident when I was fourteen in which I was caught after sneaking inside the morgue to acquire certain things that of which are pointless to disclose, seeing as it all went awry. No one of my caliber and shade of mind wants to be known as anything in a small town. At this point, I have nothing at all to lose and therefore I do not care. She may care once I take one of those ribbons and wrap them around her under-sized esophagus and strangle her to death. Then who will she look at?
My old ballet school, which I pass frequently on walks, has been crossing my mind a bit as well. That place in flames would be a masterpiece.
As I sit here at my desk by candle light, since I have no utilities, tonight I smile every time I read the seven signatures at the bottom of the Pact. They all have different styles of writing, with one common goal of dying on the date I chose so carefully and for whatever reasons. I wrote the Pact, I chose the date, and I chose how it is going to be played out. I chose it all. And no one is going to challenge me, because they are not mentally strong enough to do so. Oddly enough, I feel mentally stronger, surer, and safer than I ever have before in my relatively short life. It is enlightening to know that you are going to die. Really, actually, going to die. Everyone knows they will die, sometime in the intangibly distant future. After they are old and gray, after they have kids, after they live. They know, but they are not aware. But in the moment that they feel all the blood draining away from that freak accident falling out of the boat, when the motor hits them, or they feel themselves falling, and the air exploding into their lungs, with the ground flying up towards them faster than they can fall towards it, they come to face the reality that they are going to die. Meet their Maker. I made it simpler for these seven people I care about so very much. It is was simple as signing off your soul to the devil. I imagine that is what Lewis thinks he did.
At lunch, when he and I were standing alone together, he asked me why I even wrote the Pact. He needed to know what prompted me.
“You know well what it is like to feel the most excruciating pain you have ever been succumbed to, and it not be at all physical. You know what it is like to see scissors and instead of remembering “shitty art from kindergarten” or some stupid shit, you think of how much you want to slide the blades down your wrist. Hard. End it all. You know what I am talking about.” I gazed at him, feigning something I was not actually feeling but demonstrating mechanically.
“I know,” he sighed. “But why this?” Why this, why this. It is always why with him.
“If I am going to go out, I do not want to go out alone.”
“But Miriam isn't particularly depressed. She just wants to... be you. Or be with you.” This is true. She idolizes me and has for two years. She is quite the stupid one. If I told her I do not wear underwear, which I generally do, she would go commando to school for the rest of her pathetic life. When she invited me to sleep over, she kissed me out of mental – and otherwise - frustration. I honestly almost like it, that someone idolizes me, because quite frankly, I am not appreciated as much as I should be by the people I know. I am not good enough by my own standards because I am somewhat visible. I am seen as crazy enough though. Definitely out of my fucking mind, thanks to Kathleen making everything a much larger deal than it really was, and they never hesitate to point it out. They tell me not to forget to take my pills. But I am not on medication; I would only over-dose on it if the mood struck me as such and presented itself in a logical fashion but no one knows this. Besides, I am not schizophrenic or depressed. I am not manic-depressive. I am completely sane. I do not need pills for supposed insanity. I do need pills to make me sleep, for a long time. Forever, even. I just do not want to wake up and beating my head into a wall until this becomes a reality is too much trouble.
“Well, this will be one more thing to make her like me. She has already dyed her hair a bit blacker and bought everything I own right down to the thong. If you are pathetic enough to do all of that, you should die anyway.” I have a habit of completely bashing Miriam while talking to Lewis but Miriam and I are actually quite close in terms of what I allow, or perhaps, am capable of.
“You are cold and heartless, you know?” I nodded.
“This is the only way to die and live together forever.”
I am unaware as to why those words, in Lewis’s voice, stuck in my head. Cold and heartless. I wondered what the term actually meant. How does one go about being warm and full of heart? Maybe he is right. I believe I already knew it, but had not really heard it. Not from someone I care about. I cannot remember feeling any other way than this way I feel now. I cannot remember what it is like to love anyone else. Else. And I will leave it at that. Miriam tried to tell him; she tried to destroy me. Lewis refused to believe her idiocy. Lewis can be naive until the day we die. And then the world will perhaps know many of my intimate feelings, but he never will. He will never know that I often wish to just wrap myself around him and kiss him finally.
Tomorrow, everyone that signed the Pact is meeting up to discuss details and these are details so that our fame is strapped in tight. Everyone needs to know exactly what to do to make this work perfectly. This is not going to be any average cluster suicide. Everyone is going to know about this. In one week.
Now that it's my turn to write, I'm not exactly sure of what exactly I'm supposed to be writing. I hate writing and Erika knows it. Erika only told me to write what I felt about this day, and what happened, so I will, I guess. Whoever is reading this shit, bear with me.
Erika is a murderer. I think it’s evident enough to say for sure now. I always knew she had it in her to kill someone, and that she has put an assholes in the hospital with her violent and often warranted antics, but I never thought she would sink to the so mind-fucked level to actually murder. And she did today.
Kathleen Harvey is dead. Kathleen was a shitty excuse for a person, and I hated her almost as much as Erika, but it doesn't make the fact that she's dead any less disturbing, especially since my best friend is coldly responsible for the entire incident.
I'm not sure where Erika got a hold of it, although she’s possessed it before, but she used cyanide to poison Kathleen. I don’t know if she broke into one of the chemical plants a few miles away from her apartment in our town of Seitseville or not. I don’t even know if that place has cyanide. She's always been very resourceful in a weird way and I also know she's made dangerous things on her own in the past. I never know what might happen. When we were a little younger she even told me she knew how to make the shit out of fruit seeds, and did. She told me she stopped and dumped it out. It was a simple plan, really. Erika basically poured a portion of the contents of a tiny jar into Kathleen's water bottle which she stole out of her cheerleading locker at lunch, and locked it back up so she'd drink it during sixth period. Getting into the locker room would be easy because she could just slip in with another class if anyone was watching. Don’t know how Erika didn’t get poisoned just touching the cyanide but I’m going to take a wild guess and say she used gloves and some sort of dust mask, but I don’t really know. Maybe she wrapped her scarf around her mouth. I can only go by what I see on television. She isn’t always careful… I guess Kathleen left her locker open, or else Erika picked her lock which is very possible as well. Erika thinks she is an invisible demon wondering around our school and I’m worried she won’t even make it to what she keeps calling her “Special Day.”
Anyhow, on the track during sixth period, Kathleen fell down screaming her lungs out. I could hear her screaming from the sixth floor, since our window was open and facing the track. I have never heard anyone scream so loudly or with such intensity in my fucking life. Then, we heard the frightened screams of other girls as they crowded around Kathleen, unaware of what was going on. And then, suddenly, the harsh, forced screaming stopped, and she was dead.
I knew what happened because Erika told me at lunch that day, after showing up ten minutes late at our usual meeting spot, what she had done.
“Where were you?” I asked. She had a sinister smile on her overly pale face, so naturally I was bracing myself. Same old song and dance, or so I thought. A plan, a lie, a dream, a new riddle. I had a small panic attack and my hands wouldn’t stop sweating. Pretty commonplace.
“You know Kathleen Harvey?”
“Yeah, unfortunately. Who doesn't?”
“She will meet her last friend today,” she said. She was checking her makeup in a small hand mirror. She appeared to be a black and white photograph. Her skin is really pale and her hair long, straight and black, framing her heart-shaped face. She makes sure to keep her widows-peak covered with long, side-swept bangs. Her lips are just as white as her skin which can make her look constantly ill; she compulsively puts some red lip gloss over them. I am so happy I’m not a girl. The only color on her person is her bright green eyes, making ice cold contact with mine. It makes it difficult to talk when she stares so intensely for so long; at least, it has that affect on me. She does it often without noticing. It's basically natural for her to glare if she's going to bother making eye contact with you in the first place.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean,” she said, taking a step closer and leaning in close to my ear to whisper, “I put cyanide in her sports water bottle. No one will ever know it was me, until they read our records, in six days. So keep your mouth shut tight.” I heard her words but I couldn't quite bring myself to comprehend them. If I couldn’t get my stomach to stop doing circus tricks, I’m not sure what I’d have done.
“You're... trying to kill Kathleen? Why?” The words felt awkward leaving my mouth. So many things could go wrong with this…
“I have got a hit list and that will be one less to hit. Did you think I would leave without getting revenge?” She was right. Erika is the type to get revenge, in the way that if you call her ugly she will be sure your face gets burned so you will be uglier. This is what she considers to be fair vengeance, justice, and Karma. For some reason, I’m more upset about the fact that Erika will be dead soon than the fact that she has a hit list. She kind of deserves a hit list in this fucking town.
“You've lost your shit, Erika,” I said anyway.
“Just be sure to stay quiet. You are not the smartest crayon in the box so it is not as if you would know who to alert. Our police force in this nothing town? Please,” she scoffed. “Unless you plan on taking me down right now, there is nothing you can do to stop me.” She looked up at me, the evil suddenly gone from her demeanor, and smiled. She looked entirely innocent, like she was just here with her best friend, discussing everything in the world like we used to, if our discussions ever were so normal…. I felt my heart drop a notch. Were we ever like the others?
Fortunately, Erika’s right about the Seitseville police force being nothing but straight shit. The cotton farmer shot some supposed trespasser and they just took his word for it that he trespassed even though the whole damn town knows that farmer already had an issue with that guy for sleeping with his daughter a few months before and getting caught like fucking morons. I could go on and on about how ridiculous the law is in these parts but that isn’t the point of this record. I don’t actually know what the point is.
All of the commotion and bullshit that the cheerleader-death caused didn't faze Erika at all. She’s letting her mask slip a little. No one knows yet except Erika and me. She thinks it’s dumb to tell the others because they may report her and ruin the plans. But there was no guilt in her eyes today. She just walked down the street to my house, leading me and the other five behind her. It was very overcast, I noticed, casting a scary gray shadow on everything. The leaves were falling, and I wondered what I would be doing on Halloween until I remembered, with a deep sigh, I’d be dead and everyone would be dressed as me. I watched Erika in front of me, walking like she was on an important mission, and I guess, for her, she was. Then I wondered what we looked like; five guys and Miriam following Erika in what was almost a single-file line. Were we marching? No one was saying much of anything, except for Tommy, who can’t shut up without a whole roll of duct-tape. My mind drifted in and out of my control as we swirled in our now tangible suicidal reality. We arrived at my small, white house in a quaint (to put it nicely) neighborhood where I have lived my whole life. The first time I met Erika, I was five and she was three; I caught her in my backyard watching me through the window. I walked her down the street to her house where her grandmother was looking frantically for her. Erika’s eyes were large, her speech as developed as mine, and her intentions were of an innocent place inside of her. We’ve been friends ever since.
Erika stepped aside and waited for me to open the door. Once we were all in the living room, sitting down, Erika opened her black and tan purse and pulled out the pact.
“Okay, everyone,” she said. We all looked at her, some more intently than others (Miriam looked like she had found her Prince Charming) and waited for her to tell us what to do. I'm used to her telling me what to do, but I am one of the few people in her little web of followers who will actually challenge her. I think she likes it, underneath the arrogance and all. The two of us are very different but we’ve always been very close. We don’t even share many hobbies. That might be because my main hobby seems to be keeping hers under control.
“I need to let all of you know now what preparations need to be made for October 7th,” she said. She sounded very formal, which isn’t so out of character, but she's usually so much more comfortable with me. Long time, no suicide meeting.
“Preparations?” I asked.
“Prepare to die? How much detail could there really be? Splat!” Robin smiled. He is a slightly chubby and very dark colored guy. I think he’s Hispanic which isn’t common in Seitseville. He used to be on the power-lifting team and could easily kick anyone’s ass if he wanted but he’s pretty passive. He rarely talks anymore, but in middle school he was the biggest class clown the Seitseville world had ever seen. He even flooded the entire boys' bathroom and let several fish go after writing his name on the mirror along with “You're welcome!” in red marker. We were friends at one point, but after a while he stopped coming to school barely at all and when he did, he never talked. I'm not sure exactly what his deal is but I know it must be pretty bad. We re-united as friends over the summer, particularly at the pond-party Erika was the center of. Come to think of it, the people in the room with me were all there and only they were there. Joshua was sitting beside Robin; he’s been mine and Erika’s friend since childhood. He’s redheaded, pale, and rebellious, but he looks like he should still be in middle-school. He’s a guitarist and a good one at that, but I’ve always wondered how he functioned with how high he usually is since we’ve been teenagers. I think he was high at the meeting; maybe he was just nodding off like everyone else. Must be a symptom of depression, because Erika is anything but boring when she talks about suicide. Beside Joshua was Francis, a somehow tan and yet naturally white-haired guy who is a year older than me, making him the oldest person in the room. He was asleep. I don’t get along with Francis much, but he doesn’t say anything much to anyone who is actually in the room. Beside Francis was Miriam, the girl who is obsessed with Erika. That’s what she’s known for, even though she used to dislike Erika along with her little group which included Kathleen. She tries to look like Erika, which is very hard to do because Erika is so distinctive and her body language very unique. Tommy was beside Miriam, the only energetic signer other than Erika, wearing the rainbow bracelets he had been wearing for several months; being gay is frowned on in this backwards town, and he’s been beat up both at home and at school for being openly gay. He’s got straightened brown hair and his skin is way clearer than any teenager I’ve ever seen. He’s fifteen – the youngest of the signers with Erika being the next youngest at sixteen. Did she have this planned when she gathered us together at the pond?
“Yes,” Erika said, obviously annoyed at Robin’s attempt at humor. “October 7th is on a Monday. In the morning, before school starts, we need to get onto the roof of the school, the top of the sixth floor. I know the way up there, so worry not about that, but there are various things that need to be brought that day.”
“Like what?” I asked. Everyone else looked entranced and almost excited. Erika has a way of talking about this multiple suicide thing as if it’s going to be a party. I even felt myself looking forward to it until I gave myself a mental slap and remembered what it is we are going to do. I could have slept on the train tracks by now.
“Fireworks.” Everyone but me suddenly had their mouths open or twisted awkwardly, with looks of curious confusion in their eyes. Maybe it will be a party.“I wish for no one to worry about our final day; there is a place where we can all be together.”
It turns out, Erika plans to set off fireworks on the morning of October 7th while we are all on the roof. This is to get the attention of everyone to come to the front of the building (where the concrete is, of course, to fall on) and once it is nearly time for class to start, we’ll jump. We're to jump holding hands, she said, so that no one “chickens out” by seeing someone else splattered on the ground when it's their turn. She told us the method preferred for falling; not to jump off of the building, but to lean head-first and dive into the ground. This is all pretty well thought out; research, of course, had been done. I know I’d chicken out if I saw a splattered person below me. And she has her claws in everyone. I never thought it would be so easy to talk people into suicide. Someone less demented and as smart as she is would probably be making millions off of a brand new religion rather than killing friends off with a mini-cult. I really don’t think anyone will back out. She's told them all that life is truly to be punished by God and that this world is a level of Hell, and that we are all “smarter than the masses because we realized that we can get out of the punishment by ending the life.” We could win out over God and be rewarded with an after-life royalty position. Win the race that the masses don't know they're in. Being depressed and desperate, they fell for it, or at least let it rationalize their thoughts. I did too, so what can I say? I can't disprove what she's saying.
I hope she's having fun playing demi-god.
All seems well. No one has backed out of the Pact, or attempted to do so. I am quite pleasantly surprised. Francis seems rather impatient with the duration of the Pact, and he told me he thinks that October 7th is too far away. He and Lewis both think it is pointless to draw this whole thing out. I told him to shut up and sit down, basically, because October 7th is when we are going to do it, and I do not care if he does not like it. He has a history of trying to off himself... He has attempted it at least twelve times since I have known him. He will succeed this time. I promise.
I am sure the events of yesterday have already been recorded by Lewis, although tinged with whatever twisted albeit feminine emotion he has about it all. In short, I did the world a favor. The lot that is too stupid to get themselves out of this place will at least have one less self-absorbed anorexic bitch to deal with. Perhaps I did her a favor as well. When she hit that concrete screaming, I possessed her.
Today was much less interesting. Tommy, Miriam, and I met up after dark and stole fireworks from a nearby firework stand that, for some reason, stays open year-round. I believe they have a drug trade going on. We stole thirteen bottle rockets. That should be enough to get every ones attention. Tommy, being more feminine and attracted to those of the male gender than both Miriam and myself put together, managed to actually sneak all of the fireworks into his own room without his horribly abusive and irresponsible parents catching him and ripping him to shreds. This is fortunate for them, for now, because Tommy is and will be the very last child they abuse. The very last.
Miriam does annoy me, but I am going to remain nice and gentle so she does not try to back out of the Pact. And I say “try” with good reason. No one will back out under my watch. If they try, they die, by my hand instead of their own. No one will fuck this up for me, I swear to everything I have ever known. And it is rather alarming how much one can know in their life in such a nothing town. But Lewis alarms me. He knows me too well, and knows what it is I am doing and maybe even why. Today we were on the phone for two hours and said almost nothing.
“Why do you want everyone to see you kill yourself?” he asked. I hate these sorts of condescending questions he asks. He implies things. Such as that I am crying attention. There is only so much crying one can do when they are no longer breathing.
“Maybe when they see it, they will realize what assholes they are. And maybe follow suit in a fashion.”
“You're hoping to drive them to suicide?”
“Now that is just wishful thinking. We may disturb the lot to death.” After a long, awkward silence, I sighed. He responded with,
“Are you out to get the whole world?” I thought about this. In a way I suppose I really am, at least in thought. I know that as a human, I will never destroy the whole world on my own. The only way I could do that was to learn nuclear science, which I could not efficiently do before October 7th. And even then, I want humans dead, not animals. Animals are the only innocent things left. I do believe that even the trees are bastards.
“Yes. But that would require me becoming a doctor and having an international Euthanasia hospital like that one in Switzerland.” I have a pen-pal whose father works at Dignitas.
“World Domination by euthanasia – that's something to make a movie about. Straight to DVD.”
It would be interesting if someone managed kill the world off by assisted suicide or talking people into suicide. I do not understand the debate on euthanasia – if someone wishes to catch the bus, someone else should be able to give help get a ticket without being punished. In fact, they should be rewarded greatly. It takes much understanding of the world and human nature to see that life is not meant to be lived – it is meant to escape. That is all humans do. They spend their time immersed in hobbies to escape the world. The whole point of television is to escape life, as well as reading, talking, and everything else people waste their time with. They spend so much time, which they ironically consider “precious”, working at petty, comfortable jobs so they can afford houses and food and things that keep them from experiencing life. Life is being curled up in painful hunger, naked, dripping blood while the world smiles down on you in everything but kindness. As said by Freud, “Life is impoverished; it loses its interest, when the highest stake in the game of living, life itself, cannot be risked.” I argue that life is all but impoverished. The highest risk indeed is the living of life itself and the irritabilities that come along with it. Life was never an interest of which to lose; I never chose to be born, but alas, I was as was everyone else using petty means to escape such the “gift” they label life. I know the truth. People let time do all the work for them and in return, experience much more pain than they should have to. I have found the permanent, quick escape route. Time kills slowly and I am not a child of patience.
“I guess I'm going to sleep. I almost passed out today,” he said after another period of silence on the phone. I hate getting off of the phone with him. It makes me awkward. I squirm, even.
“I guess I'll see you tomorrow?”
“Bye.” I hung up without saying bye, as usual. I hate saying bye to him so much. Even when I was ten, and I thought he was going to move away, I avoided him for the whole week that I thought he would be leaving so I did not have to say bye. I could never do it. And with my plans going into action, never will I have to.
I have come a long way since I wrote the Pact. I wrote the Pact a month before I actually started recruiting people into signing it, mainly because I was bored. I am always bored. And it was so easy to pinpoint the people who needed me most. Maybe it is because I have been suicidal in a sense for much of my life and I know all of the signs, although my reasons are very different from everyone else’s. Maybe it is because they are obvious. Of course, I do know them well enough to know without even watching them. Misery does indeed love company. Lewis, Joshua, and Tommy have been my friends for years. I started talking to Francis and Robin in high school but I did not talk to them in person…only online. Even when I asked them to sign the Pact, it was online. I knew Francis would do it, and Robin had told me he was thinking about hanging himself soon. I told them about it online and that night we met up so they could physically sign the Pact and I noticed how eager Francis seemed. Brave (stupid) on my part - they could have reported me. Miriam was an obvious choice. She barely read the Pact before signing it. I talked to her at her house one night while sleeping over. She was wearing an identical outfit to the one I had worn the day before, except hers was from an expensive designer store. I do not understand why, or what celebrity she has mistaken me for, but this has been her way for about two years. She dyed her auburn hair dark brown and I could see her roots. I pointed this out so I could see her grow self-conscious, which is a trait of hers. Cruel, maybe, but fun all the same.
“Miriam?” I asked. I was lying beside her on her bed.
“I have this Pact that my friends and I have all signed. It is very important to read it carefully though. Make no decision hastily.” I handed it to her from inside my hoodie pocket. She read it, quickly, and looked at me.
“So you're all killing yourselves? I didn’t know that many people were depressed…”
“Yes. Kind of like how you tried to in the bathroom last year. Only, this will work.”
“How did you know about that?” She looked away, nervous. I smiled.
“I was in the last stall that is always locked, eating Tic-Tacs and skipping classes.” This is something I commonly could be found doing.
“That is so weird, Tic-Tacs are my favorite food!” The stupid bitch actually thinks I like to eat them. They function as my diet pills.
Nevertheless, she signed the Pact. It was the oddest thing. She did not even seem shocked. She did not seem human. Although I know she is. I have seen her cry.
Regardless, I am having issues with Lewis. I have things I wish to say to him, both positive and negative, that I cannot. I will write it eventually, before Dead Day, but he will never get to read it. Honestly, I have no option. If I say certain things, he may back completely out of the Pact. And then, I will have to kill him, which is not something I am so sure I have in me, I am ashamed to admit. So some things will remain secret. To him, at least. He is the person I trust the most and the one I trust the least. He seems quite sketchy.
I really, honestly hope tomorrow is more interesting. These are my final days. They will not be dull.
I woke up this morning after a horrible dream and came to the really stressful conclusion that I have to save the world.
This had to be one of the most disturbing dreams I've ever had, and I have had horrible dreams every night since I was thirteen and saw my dad blow his fucking brains out. To say a dream is scary to me is really saying something. This dream totally took the cake. No matter how I try to explain it to get the same effect, it won't happen. The dream had an emotion.
A Leader, fragile and wrapped in a short black blanket of sorts, with a black and white bunny-masque on similar to something I've seen at Mardi Gras, stood on top of a cliff to the side of a mile long line of distressed and zombie-like people. They were gray. Everyone was bleeding from various parts of their bodies; their wrists, their legs, their eyes. I was in this line, but I didn't feel as though I was one of these zombies, and I stepped out of the line to see what the Leader was doing.
The Leader was taking the hand of a young boy, probably twelve, and as zombie-like as the rest, and whispered something to him. He looked up at the Leader and nodded, and looked back down. I remember the look of relief in the boys’ eyes like they were my own. He took three steps forward and dropped off of the cliff, to my horror. I tried to scream out, but no sound escaped. The next person stepped forward. The Leader once again took their hand and whispered to them. This person, though, looked at the Leader and took a step backward. This resulted in the Leader shoving the person over the edge. Everything was so red.
I stepped forward to the Leader, out of the line, and he turned his head towards me. He extended one extremely pale arm towards me from under the blanket, to take my hand. I shook my head. He cocked his head. The Leader grabbed both of my hands and held them for a long moment, tilting his head further as if to question me, and tried to pitch me over the edge. I got close enough to the edge to see that there was no bottom to hit, and I could still see the last person he pitched over still falling. I was somehow stronger than the Leader, and wrestled him to the ground. I still could not speak. I noticed, behind me, the people were voluntarily dropping off the cliff, smiling, eyes closed, synchronized. The Leader noticed this as well and laughed. This is when I felt the most shocked, and looked back down at the Leader and the masque was gone.
It was, low and behold, Erika. Her eyes were sparkling unlike her bunch of suicidal zombies, and her smile was broad and friendly. Behind me I heard people laughing as they jumped off of the cliff to their forever-fall. I wondered if I should kill her, to save the rest, but I just couldn’t.
Then, I woke up. And threw up. All I could think about at school today was the dream, and how Erika was leading all of these people in real life into suicide. Including me. I feel super ridiculous for wanting to back out so quickly after signing the pact, but isn’t it with good reason? I know I'm depressed and in pain, and I've attempted suicide before. I've wanted to die. I wanted to die when I signed the pact, and I fully intended to follow through with it. But when you realize your days are almost over, really over, you see everything differently. You notice all of the people you never talked to and wonder what they might have to say. You notice how rain really feels. You feel that you're alive, and that you won't be forever. You don't want to go away yet. You're not the most happy you could be, but you see the possibility of change and the possibility to live. You've signed your soul over to the devil, though, and so have five other innocent people. You remember how the devil was before she fell entirely into the darkness which is young adulthood, where she really began to sparkle, and you miss her.
I finally made it to my math class with Erika, however much I dreaded it. When I arrived, she was sitting cross legged in her seat which was directly behind mine, staring intently at the doorway. Waiting for me like a viper. I sat down in front of her and turned around to her, but I avoided eye contact. I felt so guilty for so many reasons.
“How are you today?” I asked. She looked up at me.
“Bored. Anything planned for after school?” I knew I sounded fake. I'm a horrible actor. I can’t hide from someone with laser-vision.
“Food. That is all.”
“Oh, okay. What kind?” She looked at me oddly.
“What are you thinking about?” she asked. This was a startling statement for some reason. Why did she care?
“Nothing at all? Not a big blank white space? No one?”
“Nothing really. Just... math.”
“What are you thinking about?” I asked her.
“You.” She was looking directly at me, her face blank. I hesitated. My heart had moved into my throat somehow and threatened to leave my body entirely.
“I am talking to you.” She always has this magnificent way of making me and everyone else she comes in contact with feel so fucking stupid that you cannot even think of anything to say. She is like a disease that sucks all of the energy and power out of you so that you are crippled into emotional and intellectual obedience. It is not always even the things she says, but the way she says it. She has developed such a god-complex that I don’t have a clue of what to do with her; I never realized how out of hand she was. Fucking narcissist. I found myself cross-armed and with a sulking demeanor.
I waited for her in our usual place at lunch and she didn't show up. After ten minutes, Miriam, Tommy, Robin, Francis and Joshua showed up, wanting to know where she was. Although none of them ever hang out with us at lunch, they always seem to be stalking, watching. Watching Erika, at least. Short live the Queen.
“She is at school isn't she?” Tommy asked. “I saw her last night.”
“She's here,” I answered. “She was in fourth hour.” I remembered what happened the last time she showed up late for lunch and felt sick. Hopefully she wasn't up to something of that nature again.
“I'm glad you're all here,” I said. “I need to talk to all of you outside of school, without Erika being there.”
“Why?” Robin asked.
“It's about the pact. None of you understand and I can’t get into it here. Just… trust me on this. Meet me at my house after school; you all know where it is.” They all nodded and they looked oddly more awake than usual. I wondered how many of them knew the severity of their situation and how many of them signed the pact just because suicide is “cool” right now. I wondered how many of them felt suicidal impulsively, and Erika ambushed them with a pact and a pen, lying in wait like a snake in the fucking grass.
No one saw Erika for the rest of the school day. I was worried for both her and the rest of the world, or at least Seitseville. She is being so secretive lately, which is weird because of how close we are. Or were. I know she senses my hesitance. Everyone met me at my house, like planned, so I could attempt something I wasn't even sure of. I had been planning my words all day but I couldn’t predict everyone elses' potential reactions. Everyone sat on the floor like they had done when Erika was there before.
“You do know you can sit on the furniture?” I said. No one moved. They just looked at each other awkwardly. I noticed Francis had large gashes on his arms much like the ones I have. Once he realized they were visible, he pulled his sleeve back down. Fresh cuts are often itchy, easily irritated by sleeves.
“Okay, people,” I said nervously. I ran my hand through my hair, taking note of the chocolate milk stain on my shirt as I lowered my gaze. If I wanted to win them over, I had to be confident. I am no good at this kind of thing. I had to try, though. I had nothing to lose. “Is everyone here still intending to go through with the pact?” There was complete silence. Everyone looked extremely nervous and glanced around. I remained patient although I was afraid Erika would prance into the room at any moment and destroy my chance to wake these zombies up.
“It's okay, you know. I'm not Erika. I don't want to go through with it.” At this, several people looked up at me with complete desperation visible in their eyes.
“We have to do it,” Tommy said. “We signed a pact. Erika is counting on us.” At this, I wondered how in the world Erika brainwashed these people. How can one sixteen year old talk six people into ending their lives? Were they really just that weak? Was I? Am I? A dream is what talked me out of it, anyway.
“Listen to me,” I said loudly, growing frustrated. “These are your lives we’re talking about. There’s no un-doing suicide. The pact is a piece of god damned paper. Erika is out of her god damned mind. Has she fed all of you this horse-shit that life is a game meant to escape? Have any of you not fallen for her trap? Have any of you looked around at the world? If there is one thing Erika is afraid of, it's being alone. She’s a sixteen year old with imaginary friends. Erika wants to die, but not alone. That's what we are for! We are tools. This is her logic, this is her way of getting exactly what she wants…” I felt the words come out faster than I could think. Miriam was crying. Tommy looked shocked and hurt, and Robin eyeballed Francis. Francis still looked as tired as ever. His white hair looked like it was glowing.
“Erika wouldn't do that,” Tommy said.
“Erika is doing that. You've known her almost as long as me, Tommy. You know she's wacko nowadays. She…she isn’t stable. Three years ago this would not be happening. She has talked herself into believing all of this garbage you all seem to believe, too. We all need help. Not from Erika.” Erika relatively was stable but I had to make her sound wacky to the laymen… no one really knows what a sociopath is. Not even me, but it’s a word a lot of people who don’t like Erika tend to throw around.
“I didn't sign because I fell for her tactics,” Robin said. “I signed because I want to die. This just seems to be a cooler and more effective way to do it, instead of alone in my room. It will be more important.”
“It doesn't matter how fucking cool your death is when you're dead.” I was getting so frustrated with these people. I could tell it was sinking in with Tommy. And maybe Robin, too.
“So you propose we do what?” Robin asked. I sighed. I wasn't sure.
During this meeting, everyone came to the agreement not to jump. I'm to be the only one to go up on the roof with Erika to attempt talking her out of it. Everyone else is to be down at the bottom with the rest of the crowd. I don't think that she'll do it, if she's alone in it. She may even put off killing herself to kill me and the rest of the pact signers. I hope dearly that no one changes their minds, and that Erika comes to her senses. I'm not going to mention any of it before October 7th because I know if I do, she'll try to kill everyone. She's not in her right mind anymore, if she ever was. She’s fucking malignant. I'm just happy that I talked them out of it even though it did turn into a debate of sorts... Maybe things will be alright in a few days. Or close to alright.
I saw on the news that a nearby ballet school, where Erika took ballet as a child (and was bullied brutally) burned down today. There were three fatalities and seven serious injuries. I don't know but I just feel that Erika has something to do with it. Two of the people who died went to our school. Police are crawling everywhere. They concluded it was an electrical fire, and I’m concluding that we have the laziest, poorest cops around. And Erika is getting kind of careless since she thinks she’s dying in a few days anyhow.
I just hope that no one jumps. No one. Including Erika.