By the Time You Read This, I'll Be Dead Read Online Free Page A

without Mom or Dad seeing me.
    Twenty-one more days to remove every trace of my existence. I could do that in twenty-one minutes.

— 20 DAYS —
     
    No one calls me fat ass or lard butt at this school. No one smashes a Twinkie through my locker vent. No one pokes me and goes, “Gooey mass,” or “Porker,” or “Blubber belly.”
    Back in second grade this boy called me “Plumpkin.” “Hey, Plumpkin,” he said. “Hey, fatso.”
    I wasn’t that fat yet. Maybe I was. I remember every mean thing anyone ever said to me. Plumpkin. Fat ass. Crybaby. Big fat crybaby.
    It’s so Oprah, but to feel better I ate away the pain. Then the pain ate me.
    I don’t know why I can’t let the insults go, but I can’t. I’m the product of every hurt that’s ever been laid on me.
    Human waste product. Dispose of it.
    He’s not there when I exit the gate. Thank God. I stalled around in the girls’ restroom an extra few minutes so he’d give up.
    Why isn’t he in school, anyway? Even yesterday, when I got out early, he was there. He is a stalker.
    It’s a relief he’s not here. I need to be alone, physically and emotionally. The final act must be accomplished in a total state of purity. The other times, I realize now, I had impure thoughts. Doubt, or hope.
    I open my book. The words glow stark against the page. Black, white, black, white . . .
    “Sen-Sen?” he says, opening the tin.
    I’d scream if I could. I’d tell him to . . . the word “respect” burbles up in my brain. Respect my space, my privacy. I don’t deserve respect. I don’t deserve anything. Mom’s CR-V swerves around the corner and disorients me. How long was he there? Was I reading? Not one word sank in.
    I hustle to the street and he calls, “Hey, you forgot your bookmark.” I wrench open the car door and slam it shut. I have other bookmarks.
    Mom says, “Hi, honey. How was your day? I missed you.”
    She never says that. Why would she miss me?
    I almost look at her, then don’t.
    There are 318 people logged on to Through-the-Light. Friday nights are lonely for so many people in the world.
    Not only have I never had a boyfriend, I’ve never had a date, so being home on Friday night is all I know. Mom and Dad used to have a standing Friday night date. Before, when they could leave me alone in the house at night.
    The Final Forum is a beehive of activity. Buzz buzz. Hot topic tonight: Attempts .
    J_Doe122589: How many times have you tried? This will be my third. And last.
    J_Doe050550: I OD’d on heroin twice. My roommate found me both times. He shoulda let me die, man. I’m so f*d up.
    I could tell them stories.
    J_Doe081967: I’ve tried 12 times. Pills, booze, knives. This time it’s for real.
    What a liar. Trying is failing. Failing to complete. Failing to plan and consider every angle of your method. There is always—ALWAYS—the possibility of failure. But twelve times?
    I bet most of us here have tried and failed. The completers aren’t here, of course. We’re cowards in their eyes—if they can see us.
    J_Doe102259 writes: I try electric myself and didnt work. My frien told me if I drop hairdry in bath tub, I die. Wrong.
    Is she foreign or something? It’s a global epidemic.
    J_Doe012964 writes: I chose electrocution becuz I read its fast and painless. I cut my electrical line and stood in bare feet in a puddle. I lost conshiousness and my neighbor resussitated (sp) me. All I got was 3rd degree burns on my leg. Its NOT painless.
    You never want to be resuscitated. You have to plan the time and place. You have to be alone. You never want to end up on life support, or as a vegetable. You must destroy your body beyond the point where it will support life.
    The foreign girl adds: I try total 4 times and evrytime I wake up in hopital.
    The worst is waking up in the hospital. Your parents are there, crying. Or your mother is yelling at the doctors and nurses. You come back wrecked. You ruin everyone’s day.
    It won’t happen again.
    I