Some suicide with your cake?

When we were younger my cousin andrew burnt his thigh fairly badly by spilling boiling water on it. My mom and dad weren't home. So While he sat in the kitchen screaming I continued to watch TV. My rationale was that my show would soon be over, while andrew would be in the kitchen for an infinitely long amount of time. Despite being nine when it happened I'm now worrying that this may be my life's defining moment. I've got the best of intentions but have never known my priorities. Never.
I had managed to forget that memory for years, tucking it happily away with my first grade teachers name and everything that happened before the age of three. This morning, however, as I decided to skip class in favor of sticking my head in our oven it came rushing back to me. There, like a thanksgiving turkey, I tried to remember what his thigh looked like and wondered whether it was the fumes or the heat that was supposed to kill me. I had never done this before. For the sake of irony, my suicide plan had always been to over-dose on anti depressants, but I was out. This would have to do.
When thinking of these kinds of deaths few ever consider the possibility that some people just don't want to live. To society, that's not an acceptable answer; so everyone looks to blame something else. There is the claim that culture today has no substance. That the media makes us ugly if we don't portray a certain image. That our collective minds have a chemical imbalance. That our schools teach us hate. That our peers destroy our egos. There are a lot of things that are said to kill, but in my reality there are no set reasons, just an oven, and that's the point.

I didn't want to write a note. A note would have given the illusion that this was a cry for help, when in actual fact my cry for help came a long time ago. If anyone really wanted my reason they could figure it out themselves. This isn't anything tragic. It's meant to be subtle and sad, but of course it won't be taken that way. Someone was bound to over-analyze this and try to make me a slogan for their cause. I am Holden Caulfield. I am kids help phone. I am teenage depression. I am family services. Whatever. My whole life was going to be summated into a video montage of childhood pictures and friends crying, while some Sarah Mclachlan song played in the background, and frankly that depressed the hell out of me.

Why did I want to die so badly? The answer to that question didn't matter. If I thought about this too much I'd cop out for sure. Just a little longer. Just a little bit more. It'd all be over soon. A drop of sweat rolled into my eyes. Another dripped down from my forehead and sizzled as it hit the element. Just a little longer. Is the thing inside an oven even called an element? Drip. Sizzle. Drip. Drip. Sizzle. If I ever do it all again I'm going to pre heat to 450 before putting my head inside.

I twisted to an angle where I didn't have to look at the orange glow anymore. I wanted to see our kitchen becausewell, I always liked our kitchen. I kept staring at the cupboards as things started to get hazy; they shifted and became a paler shade of white. I am really not sure if that is supposed to mean anything to me. If anything that was my sign to turn back, but I'm too scared to do that now. You get to a point where you realize that the past is behind you. You do something for a long time then that line gets crossed and you're not doing it anymore. It's done. It's over. I think. I want to figure out if living is one of those things.

My visions just a blur now. I'm starting to realize that this hurts. This was all my idea and it hurts. It hurts in the sense that I know I'm going to upset a lot of people, and more than likely break my mothers heart, but it also hurts in the sense that my face is getting progressively hotter. I don't even care. I remember what his thigh looks like.