This is a short story I wrote my junior year in high school. We were asked to write a short story about a subject we knew a fair amount about, and I chose suicide. I t was my hope to show others the erratic thought process in a teens mind when our depression hits that low.
Today, 09.22.12 my 16-year-old son just found out that one of his 17-year-old classmates shot and killed himself this past Thursday. He left no note and his family and friends are in complete shock as to why. He had a lot going for himself.
I was fortunate, I survived although I still struggle with depression to this day.
Depression is not just a symptom, it is a disease in and of its own. It needs to be taken seriously.
Kirk paused outside the apartment door, bracing himself. He should have been home hours ago and his dad was probably beyond furious. Taking a deep breath, he opened the door and walked into the small apartment.
“You’re late again Kirk,” Steve Peters said as Kirk closed the door.
“Sorry dad. I lost track of time.”
“You lost track of time?” his dad yelled. “Last night your friends’ car wouldn’t start, the night before you missed the bus. I’m sick of all your excuses!”
“I said I was sorry,” Kirk repeated.
“Well ‘sorry’ just isn’t cutting it anymore. If you can’t find a way home on time, then you don’t have to go out! Starting now, you’re grounded. You go to school, work, and that’s it. Understood?”
“Give me a break! I’m sixteen, a little old for grounding.”
“As long as you’re living under my roof, you’re not too old for any punishment I care to give. You’re grounded until you can show some responsibility.”
“Come on dad,” Kirk pleaded. “So I’ve been a little late. What’s the big deal?”
You’ve been late everyday this week. Cheryl and I have more important things to do than about you. You’ve also been neglecting your chores and falling behind in school.”
“Maybe I’ve been neglecting my chores because I’m sick of cleaning up after you and Cheryl all the time! Why should I clean up a mess I didn’t make? As far as my grades go, it’s my life and I’ll live it the way I want!” Kirk screamed.
“You know better than to raise your voice to me. Go to your room and stay there until you remember your manners!” his father bellowed.
“Fine!” Kirk hissed through clenched teeth. With that, he headed for his room and slammed the door shut behind him.
At that moment, the apartment door opened and Kirks’ step-mother walked in.
“I heard you two yelling all the way down the hall,” she said quietly.
“I’m surprised the neighbors haven’t said anything yet,” Steve replied.
“Want some help with supper?”
“I’d love it,” he said, then bent over to kiss her.
“I’ll show them,” Kirk mumbled to himself. “They don’t want me around, that’s just fine with me. They won’t have to worry about me anymore!”
He began to sob as he hastily cleaned his room. Everything had a place in life, and he was going to make sure everything was in its proper place—including himself.
Once his room was as spotless as he could possibly get it, Kirk sat on his bed, grabbed a notebook and pen, and began writing a letter. When he had finished it, he pinned it to one of his wall posters. Then he changed into his Sunday best, folded his dirty clothes, and set them on the clothed hamper in the corner of his room.
“Supper won’t be ready for another two hours,” he whispered to himself. “They’ll look in my room, assume I’m sleeping, and they’ll leave me alone until tomorrow morning. By then it will be too late to do anything.”
He reached for his jacket and removed a small bottle from its’ pocket. ‘NYTOL, For the Z’s You need’ was written across the front of the bottle. He walked back to his bed and climbed under the covers. Then he opened the bottle of sleeping pills, picked up the glass of water on the night table next to his bed, and swallowed every pill in the bottle. Recapping the bottle and setting it and the glass on the night table, he turned off his light and settled himself under the covers.
“I’m sorry dad, to end it this way. At least I won’t cause anymore trouble,” he whispered quietly. “Good-bye.”
He began to cry again as he drifted off into a soundless, dreamless sleep.
Dear Dad and Cheryl,
I’m finally being responsible. I’ve caused
You two so much trouble, and I’m very sorry.
I know this is the cowards’ way out, dad.
But I don’t know of any other way. I love
You both very much. Please believe that.
Take care of yourselves.
“Dear God, why?” Steve sobbed after reading his sons’ note.
“I just don’t understand why he would want to die, why he would take his own life,” Cheryl cried.
The two watched as the ambulance roared off with Kirks’ body.
“I knew something was bothering him,” said Steve, “but I didn’t know it was this bad.”
“Neither did I,” Cheryl replied. “Neither did I.”
Copyright ©1988 Kyla M. Davis~Scheuer