Narrative Suicide Speech
Narrative Suicide Speech
Academic Decathlon
Cold. That’s how I would describe days like today-as I somberly walk down the street, awaiting the cold to chill me to the bone before I return to the quasi-safety of my home, plastering yet another warm smile upon my face before I greet my friends and loved ones, tiredly thinking to myself, “You must smile for them, because this could be the last time…”
The last time... Of what? Of seeing my friends? Of going into the comfort of the warm living room? Perhaps so. Or perhaps it is the last time that I choose to live through this perpetual routine filled with pseudo-emotions… the last time I force a smile for the sake of my friends and family, the last time I breathe in the thick air to sustain me for a while longer.
But then… every time I begin to think these thoughts, the fear overwhelms me-so much so that it overrides my suffering, forcing me to continue living as a person labeled medically alive, yet feeling so emotionally dead, as if my soul was already removed from my body long ago. It hurts. Deep down, I can feel the remnants of my being, of my eternal soul, or whatever is left of it, not only splitting, but… it’s almost as if the shards have rubbed against each other abrasively, like two stones competing for the same position in a pond until they ultimately wear away to nothing. I feel like that sometimes. It’s hard to express… but it’s like those rocks I described are my emotions, warring for dominance in my troubled mind. Except it’s so much more complicated than merely two rocks-this is my life. This is what I must go through each and every day. Instead of those two rocks, there are many in their place, still competing for that particular spot in the forefront of my mind that I listen to-the area in my brain that dictates the when, the where, the whys, and the hows.
I suppose I should start from the beginning, as this is the first day of my journal. Yes, hello journal, my name is Julienne. And this is my life.
This is so unbearably lame. I cannot believe those crocks at the infirmary at the academy, who I have made swear to secrecy the thoughts that I divulged to them, forced me to create a journal-I’m only doing this, recording these petty thoughts, so that my “horrid secret” will remain just that-a secret. But, I wonder, who will this journal benefit? Future “troubled youths” such as myself? I hate when they label me. When they categorize me, or young adults who feel similarly yet so vastly different, under one category-the one where they talk amongst each other, referring to us not by name, but by that infuriating label. I am not a troubled youth. I am Julienne, student at Marshall Academy, voted Most Congenial three years running.
Now, journal, I am sighing against the page. This is so tedious. I have been living a lie for the past I don’t even recall how many years. I’m not Most Congenial-but far from that. I’m cynical, pessimistic, untrusting of those that believe they have my faith. Why? Since I’m supposedly “telling all”-I guess it would not hurt to divulge one more minute secret, as no one is going to read this journal entry anyway. When I was a bit younger, I was raped after I witnessed the brutal murder of my best friend who I wanted so desperately, at the time, to be my lifelong companion. How can I not be cynical of the nature of human beings after that? I haven’t told anyone yet. The guilt about not speaking up when I had the chance-shrinking away in fear due to unwarranted death threats upon me should I tell anyone-has been eating away at me, even more so than the pain and agony of reliving the rape on a nightly basis. And yet I smile, living on for a bit longer, just to keep my loved ones, the ones still alive, happy. Because that’s all I can do now. I’m no longer living for myself, but for them.
I think this is enough. I want to cross out the words, thinking that perhaps furiously blotting them out will make the events disappear, but I know it’s useless. What’s happened is done, and cannot be changed. Therefore, it is the actions that I do in the future that define me. That is why I cannot choose to be selfish and do away with my life. Those crocks can question me all they want, but I know I won’t do it. I’m not strong enough to do it. I think about it though, but looking at the people that I’d affect if I did go through with it… I always seem to reconsider.