The End

BEFORE YOU READ: The following story deals with suicide and may be triggering for some. If you struggle or have struggled with self-injury or thoughts of suicide, please don't read this story.

I thumb through the note cards in my hand again. Only three left. Four already gone, delivered with no final words. It bothers me that I couldn’t say goodbye, but I get to say goodbye anyway. That’s what the note cards are for.

The bus I’m riding trundles to a stop. I look up and realize we’re at my stop. I slip off, clutching my note cards close to my chest. Another couple of blocks and I’m at the next house.

Just like the others, I knock first. And, like the others, there is no reply. I slip a note card under the door, taking one last look at the plain, handwritten words. A song title and an artist. That’s it. I didn’t sign any of them, but they will all know who left them.

Back on the bus, I stare out the window, watching the town rush by one last time. I will never see this again. I will never ride this bus, or any bus, again.

As I’m absorbed in my thoughts, someone sits next to me. “You’d think you’re new here or about to leave. This place isn’t that interesting,” she says.

It’s Emily. She wasn’t home when I dropped off her note card.

I hide the other note cards under my leg and smile. “It’s peaceful, though.” And it will stay that way once I’m gone. They won’t miss me.

“You headed home?” she asks.

I nod and say nothing. The only thing left to say is what I planned, and that will wait until I’m leaving.

When the bus gets to my stop, Emily and I get up.

“See ya later,” she says.

No, you won’t. “Goodbye, Emily. Thanks for everything. You were always a bright spot.” Before she can ask what I mean, I get off the bus.

From there, it’s a short walk back to my house. I stop at my neighbor’s house and drop off another note card. Mrs. Pitts isn’t home, like she never is on Wednesday afternoons. That’s why I picked today. No one will be home to stop me.

I leave the last note card on my kitchen table for my parents. I want them to find it before they find me. They know the song on it. Maybe they won’t have to see me to know.

Then I draw a bath and get my stash of sleeping pills from the hollowed-out book in my room. As I wait for the tub to fill, I empty the bottle into my hand. I fill a glass with tap water. Something is swirling around in it, but it won’t make a difference. I won’t be around to find out what it is.

I pop the handful of pills in my mouth and down half the glass of water. I climb into the tub, sliding down until my nose is barely above the water. Then I wait for the pills to drag me under and bring me to the end.