We arrive at the new hospital, and I am wheeled up to the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit. You could hear the cries and screams of the other children, helpless, and hurting. I immediately felt bad.
Those kids were fighting for their lives, and I was trying to end mine. The guilt was worse than the pain at that point. Once I died, I was surely going straight to Hell. I was so incredibly selfish. But then I thought about it more.
If I wasn’t here, things would be better. Though committing suicide seemed to be a selfish thing to do, I’d improve so many lives by doing so. I’d improve my family’s, because they wouldn’t have to deal with me. I’d improve my teacher’s, because then they wouldn’t have another stupid person in their class. I’d improve my somewhat friend’s lives, because they wouldn’t have to put up with my constant problems and flaws. I was just doing what I thought was best for everybody.
I decided I was done thinking. I had already taken the pills; there was no going back now. I simply closed my eyes, and tried to drift off to sleep, hopefully for the last time.
My eyes fluttered, as I woke up to another needle in my arm. Not again, I thought. Why did I wake up into this terrible reality again? How come it was taking so long for me to die?
I assumed that because I was so fat, the pills had a larger area to spread through once they had dissolved. Once again, my excessively large body had ruined yet another plan.
My thoughts were interrupted as another nurse came up and tried to coax me into telling her why I overdosed. I basically just shrugged whenever someone asked me why I had attempted suicide. No one needed to know. It wasn’t their business. It wasn’t their life. It’s mine. Well, it was mine. It was slipping away right before my eyes...