Going On

Noelle

“A girl calls and asks, 'Does it hurt very much to die?'
'Well, sweetheart,' I tell her, 'yes, but it hurts a lot more to keep living.'” 
― Chuck Palahniuk, Survivor

My phone screen glowed in the darkness, pulling me from my thoughts long enough to peek at it. A text from Theo; predictable, considering no one else would've bothered to text me.

Other than my friend, Whitney, but we hadn't talked much since I attempted suicide, and she stopped me. I gave her an earful right after, when I was still distressed and angry that I was waking up. I wasn't in the right state of mind, and didn't realize that all the poor girl wanted was to help.

Not that it mattered anymore. Whitney sure as hell wouldn't talk have talked to me after that.

Hey, Noelle?

I furrowed my brow, confused at the idea of him initiating a conversation.

Yes?

He didn't wait more than a few seconds before replying.

Can I see you tomorrow? I'd like to talk, if that's alright with you.

I pursed my lips. And here, I ran into a problem. Should I just say yes, to spare him the worry and heartache? Or should I be straight with him, considering he'd been nothing much straight with me?

I don't think I can do that, Theo. I'm going somewhere tomorrow.

I sighed. Not exactly the truth, not exactly a lie. I supposed that would have to do for the moment.

Where are you going?

I blew a few flyaway hairs out of my face. If I simply didn't respond, he might worry.  

Somewhere far away.

There, that would do the trick. Vague, but not very worrisome.

With that, I put my phone to rest, tossing it beside me on my desk. My room was dark, the blinds drawn shut and the lights shut off. The only thing illuminating the room was an old lamp on my desk, shining down on a simple piece of crumpled binder paper. It wasn't much to look at--wrinkled, torn at the corner, punctured in places where I'd pressed too hard with my pencil. My small, deliberate handwriting decorated the page from top to bottom. The top of the page was titled "Ideas: How I Will Go Out with a Bang."

There must have been thirty different ideas, but a few are highlighted in blue marker.  

"Scrub-a-Dub, Dead Girl in a Tub: Run a bath. Slit wrists in X's (make sure they are even. You may not be an artist, but try to get this one thing right). Let blood fill the tub. Take all the pills you can find. Sit back, and let the medication and blood loss do the rest."

That idea was adorned with a big red star. I scowled at it for a moment before taking my pencil and scratching the idea from the page. Been there, done that.

"Mountains and Mole-Hills: Go for a walk around the foothills near the mountain. Bring rope. Find a place with a nice view. Secure the rope on a tree branch (do your research. We don't need to make any stupid mistakes here.). Put the noose around your neck, and bomb's away. Instant classic."

I pursed my lips. These were the modern days, and I suppose I just wasn't feeling too classic. I moved on to a newer idea.

"That's Show Business: Go to the youth center on a club meeting day. When the teacher begins the lesson, pull out a gun. Make a grand speech (really go for it on this one.). As soon as anyone tries to stop you, blow your goddamn brains out. Put on a show."

I rolled my eyes. If only I had the guts to do something like that.

I read over many more ideas, but my eyes ended up drifting back to the single, newest one.

"The Theo Special: Go 'jump the fuck off' a bridge."

Simple. Fool-proof. Classic. Poetic. And it was impossible to fail, considering I had no idea how to swim.

And, luckily for me, my parents were out of town all weekend.

My phone lit up again.

Have a nice trip.