THE EIGHTH TIME

Prologue

     Seven times.

     I’ve tried to kill myself seven times.

     Put it the way you want, with the words that don’t make your sweet kiddy ears cringe; I’ve attempted to my life, tried to steal my breath away, whatever the buck makes you feel all better at night when you go back to bed in your perfect little world, smiling to yourself and thinking “I really hope mom makes pancake tomorrow”

     My mom never made pancakes.

     I’m not saying my mom was a bad person. She was in fact a very good person. My mom worked has a social worker, but see the thing is when you’re so centered on the problems of all the kids out in the street you forget about your son at home that told you that that big bruise on his neck was because his scarf got caught in a closed door.

     I don’t wear scarves.

     Even I don’t know how she did it to not notice.

     But truthfully, it’s because I know the trick.

     Now what is that trick?

     Smile.

     Smile and laugh and make jokes. Goof around, go out, pretend…

     It’s all about pretending.

     I’ve always been told that everything was a question of perception. So if the people around you see you as a happy person, they’ll think you are happy. Why? Because they don’t want to know the truth. Because the truth doesn’t interest them. Is there even such a thing as truth? Again it’s all a question of perception.

     Everything is bull if you ask me.

     First time was when my mother gave birth to me. I twisted the umbilical chord around my neck. I already knew life wasn’t worth a crap then.

     Second time was when my grandfather died when I was four. I put a plastic bag over my head and tried to make myself suffocate. I lost consciousness and then let go of the bag and started to breath again.

     Third time was in fourth grade. My parents had another huge fight, and I was sure they would split this time. I swallowed a huge piece of my Mister Potato. My father ran to my room when he heard me trashing and made me choke it out.

     Fourth time was after Loraine rejected me. She was my first crush. I went out in the wood with a bottle of pills from the medicine cabinet. Problem is, it wasn’t pain medicine. It was laxative. Let’s just say the result was explosive.

     Fifth time was when my parents finally separated. I jumped off a bridge. But stupid me, the bridge wasn’t high enough, and just like a reflex I swam back to surface.

     Sixth time was just a really bad day. I hung myself, but the beam I had tied the rope to was old, too old. It broke under my weight and I feel on the floor, the beam after, hitting me on the head. Should have seen this as God’s way of mocking me maybe.

     The seventh time is too hard to mention…

     But this time I won’t miss it. It’s not going to be just a number to add up to the others. I won’t say “I’ve tried to kill myself eight times”

     This time is the good one.

     Why?

     Because this time, I’m standing by the cliff. And it’s mathematically impossible for me to survive the fall if I jump.

     And I’m going to jump.

     I truly have nothing to live for anymore…