Glass Suicide

When I was ten, I took an old pickle jar and used it to save money. At one point I almost had a hundred dollars, then it was stolen. I was never able to figure out who did it, but whoever it was left me with nothing but a broken jar.
In the end all it taught me was to hide things better. That eventually became less about material items, and more about emotions. It turned into lying, cutting, starving, and crying alone at night. It became silence when I'm bullied and laughing when I fall. It became a wall I never realized was built and don't know how to take down. It spiraled into more than I ever wanted, more than anyone had intended, it grew like a weed. But maybe I'm lying right now.
Was there a jar? Was there money? Maybe, but my words are the only proof that exists. I am the only person who knows whether my words are real or fake; I am the only person who knows the truth, yet I lie about it everyday. Maybe I'm the true-

I jump a little as the bell rings, not fully in my body. I watch as everyone around me starts to walk to their next class, so I do the same.
My ears ring as I try to focus, hearing but not listening. This time instead of being stuck in my head, it feels like others are trying to get in. I see the faces of the people who hurt me and avoid flashbacks to the memories my brain is always trying to relive, all while staring at the whiteboard.
As my teacher scribbles things I'm supposed to know, I act as though I'm listening. I always do, even if im gone the whole day, but no one has to know that.

As my thoughts get louder and my anxiety fights me, I try to keep calm. I count the same lights I count every other day like the number will change. All I can do is hope that someone will address me or acknowledge me in anyway, then someone does.

"You should kill yourself."

I stared in disbelief, as if it was the first time they've said it to me. The words stung, but I smiled. I would usually laugh but a smile already used more energy than I had.

The phrase was something I'd never say to anyone, the words being to powerful no matter the context. It was funny, the same words that brought me back into reality were the ones that pushed me farther out of it.

What if I do?

I thought it everytime, yet it felt stronger today. I could already tell something bad was going to happen, or it would be bad if it was anyone else, but for me it would bring joy to everyone.
Though the bad was usually cuts across my arm or hot water on my back, I already knew that wasn't going to be enough. If I can, why not make someone's wish come true? Its the least I could do.
I left the school with these thoughts in my head, knowing I might become just another statistic when I got home.
I smiled at my teachers, putting up the same facade I do every other day, the difference being that they'll know its fake this time.

When I got home, I grabbed a pen and paper off the table. The last thing I have to do is write a note. I tried to think of who would care enough to read it, but no one came to mind. I was more sad than I had expected, tears were already rolling down my face.

"I don't know who cares to read this," my printing started off neat, but I could tell by my blurred vision it wouldn't stay that way, "I just want to say I'm sorry. I'm sorry for everything I've done, even if I don't know what that is. I'm sorry for taking up time and space but,"
I was sobbing, allowing myself to feel more pain than I had in a long time. No one will care about what I write; the only closure I give will never be read, no one would waste their time for me. It was almost embarrassing, but I decided to finish the note anyways.
"But to my mom and sister I love you, even though it feels like you're together while I'm left here. I still love you more than the world. I held on for you and only you, but I think im out of time. Again, I love you and I'm sorry."

The note was covered in tears. This was it. Everything was closing with a tragic end, but maybe that's what I need. A tragic end to a tragic life.
There was so much I wanted to get off my chest and a note would never be enough. I gently grabbed the note, folding it in half before writing "goodbye" on the surface.

I walked slowly towards the bathroom, looking at paper in my hands one last time silently hoping someone would stop me. Save me from myself. Hoping someone would say they care and that they want me to live, but no one came. No one ever did.

With nothing left to give, I dropped the note on the ground. "Someone will find it." My words sounded broken, echoing through the empty hall.

I turned on the tap, filling the tub with warm water as my favorite songs played. A long time ago I decided if I ever killed myself, I would drown. I could float in peace as my favorite music was distorted by water. It was a scenario that brought me peace and sometimes imagining it was the only thing that could calm me down. Though I always thought of a beautiful sunset over an open ocean, this was good enough.

I sunk in the tub and felt relief knowing it was finally ending. My life was almost over. I stayed under the water looking at the yellow stained ceiling for what felt like hours.

Knowing that my life would soon be over gave me a weird sense of peace. The assignments I had to do didn't matter anymore, nothing did. All the stress I felt was gone. All the thoughts I once feared became my only escape.

I resisted as my body started gasping for air, needing one last thrill. My ears started ringing and my vision went blurry until I eventually gave in. I felt myself breathe, but instead of fresh oxygen I received water. I felt it burn, but the pain only lasted seconds. From there I was gone, my world stopped and, just like my jar, I broke.

Everything I was shattered. Peircing everyone who ever loved me with a shard of glass. My one good deed, the wish I was granting, only hurt people. My intentions were for one, while not looking at the many. I listened to the person who told me to kill myself not knowing of those who wanted me to live, but now I'm gone. My reality ended.

To those who think suicide is selfish, I am the villain. Maybe they're right, I could be. I cut everyone with my pain. With my death, I gave everyone a peice of my sorrow. My intentions were always to help when I only ever hurt. I thought my last choice could change that but I just continued the cycle.
With my death, I broke. I gave all my hurt away like a present, a twisted birthday that stopped my world. It was the end of a life, one I thought to be ugly and vile.

I thought I was a weed, when I was really a flower. My death was a tragic end to what could have been a beautiful life. I plucked myself from the soil because I couldn't see the sun.
Everything ended before it started. My life was over. Someone stole my happiness, but I was the one to break my own jar.