AND THAT’S when it hit me hard that getting shot wasn’t the worst thing that happened to me.
This was. Right now. This moment.
I know I’m being a total drama queen. Self-pitying. Pathetic even.
But here’s the thing.
Even after I got shot, I still clung to some tiny little bit of shred of hope that things would get better.
That I would get better.
Now I knew they wouldn’t and that I wouldn’t. Ever.
The pain I was feeling from being rejected, on top of everything else, was more than I could take. More than anyone could or should have to take.
And now knowing that I could hurt someone as badly as I know I did Mrs. Jonson, that I had become that person who did things like that, it was too much for me to deal with.
I saw no way out, no way to escape who I was and what I saw myself becoming.
And late on the Saturday night two weeks after the weekend with Josh, sitting alone in my room, it hit me.
The answer was there at the bottom of my sock drawer.
Ziggy’s gun.
My gun.
I took a deep breath at the thought.
I didn’t have to do this anymore, I told myself. Any of it. I could just end it. I wouldn’t have to wake up tomorrow. I wouldn’t have to think about that night ever again. I wouldn’t have to feel the lingering pain from my wounds. From my scars, all of them, both physical and emotional.
I wouldn’t have to have my heart broken and guts kicked in because of who, no, not who, but because of what I have become since it happened.
Because of who I am.
I went over to the drawer, rummaged through what suddenly seemed like way too many socks, and found it.
I pulled it out and looked at it. I really hadn’t before.
It was heavier than I thought it would be, than I remembered it being. And I have to admit, it felt kind of good in my hand.
I looked at myself in the mirror. It made me look like a tough guy. I struck poses I’d seen in the movies. I did a little Robert De Niro in Taxi Driver.
I could, I told myself, do this.
I could, I convinced myself, do it. It would be the best thing for me and for everyone who knew me.
But I realized I didn’t know how exactly to do it. What was the best way? The fastest way? The most painless way?
I had no idea. So I went to the Google. (Going to “the” Google is his joke.)
Of course.
Ridiculous I know. Funny even. But I needed to know.
After a few minutes of researching “What’s the most painless and effective way of shooting oneself in the head?” I found I had two options: hold the gun to my temple and shoot through my brain from one side of my head to the other, or into my mouth and shoot straight through the back of my head.
In either case I’d be dead, I hoped, before I dropped the gun.
There were, however, disadvantages to both.
Putting the gun into my mouth and shooting seemed gross.
When Hitler killed himself, I learned, he put the gun to his temple. Did I really want to follow down Hitler’s path? I know, this is an absurd way to make a decision, but when you’re thinking about killing yourself, your thoughts go in strange directions.
The problem with shooting via the temple was if my hand shook or slipped even a tiny bit because it was getting all sweaty, as mine tend to do, and my shot was off just a little bit, I could end up brain damaged or in a coma instead of dead.
Still, I thought, temple was the way to go. I couldn’t imagine taking it into my mouth and… no.
But then I noticed Clark was curled up under my desk. I couldn’t do that to him. I couldn’t leave him.
Could I?
Yes, I told myself, I could. He didn’t need me. I couldn’t even walk him. Dad walked him every morning and evening. He’d be fine.
I gave him a hug and sent him out the door. I thought or even hoped that he’d do like dogs do in the movies and would stay outside the door and cry like he knew what I was doing, and that would make me change my mind.
But nope, I could hear him trot downstairs.
So I picked up the gun and looked into the mirror. Saw the look in my eyes, and knew I couldn’t do this life anymore.
I thought about the shooting. I thought about the kids laughing at me at the assembly. I thought about the pain I was feeling, the throbbing that seemed to be worse because of what had happened. And the dread that any sudden noise would send me reeling back to that bloody dance floor.
I thought about Josh. It was silly, but I still loved him, or thought I did, or was holding on to it because it would hurt too much to give it up or give up on him entirely. But after a week of silence, somewhere deep down I knew all hope was gone. I wasn’t what he wanted, and that was that.
I wondered what he would think if he heard the news. Would he blame himself? A small part of me kind of hoped he would.
I thought about sending him a text, saying simply “bye.” But I couldn’t do it. What if he responded?
I thought about Nate and how much I missed him. I’m not in the least bit religious, and I knew that there was next to zero chance that I’d magically be reunited with him, but at that moment, next to zero chance still seemed better than what I was going through here.
I thought about the pain I had just caused Nate’s mom. How could I have texted her that? Is that what I’d become?
That was maybe the worst. Everything else had been out of my control. But that was on me. Entirely.
I thought how about how it would destroy my parents; I wondered who would make it up the stairs first when they heard the gunshot. I could hear their screams and see their looks of horror when they found me. They were downstairs watching TV, and part of me knew I should go down and talk to them and tell them what I was feeling and thinking about doing so they could tell me why I shouldn’t, taking the choice out of my hands, but I couldn’t.
I thought about leaving them a note to try and explain why I had done it. But if I couldn’t fully explain it to myself, what could I say to them?
This was me, alone, thinking I was taking control of my life by ending it. I’d be gone; they would have to deal with it.
I suddenly realized I didn’t know how to even shoot the thing. Back to Google to learn how to take off the safety and make sure it was loaded.
Now I could do it.
The gun was at my temple, my hand was shaking and sweating, and I was afraid if I didn’t do it, then I’d never do it. I closed my eyes and then suddenly remembered: Phillip Moller. Poor sad Phillip, who had done exactly the same thing I was going to do.
The gun fell out of my hand.
If Phillip’s suicide had put the fear of coming out into me and Nate and who knows how many other scared kids, what would my suicide do?
How could I do that, knowing what Phillip’s suicide had done to me?
And how strange is it that I had no problem hurting my parents and Clark and what few friends I had, but when it came to potentially hurting strangers… that’s what stopped me.
I stared at myself in the mirror for a long time.
I grabbed my backpack, put the gun in it, and texted Ziggy to come get me.
He was there in five. I had a joint in my hand in seven. A vodka slushie in my hand in twelve. And the gun had been returned to Ziggy, with thanks, in fifteen.
“I can’t have this, Zig,” I told him, hesitating before I went on. “I almost….”
He looked shocked and pained. “I’m glad you called me” was all he said. And all he needed to say.
And through my stoned drunken haze, which I so badly needed, it hit me.
Things would have to change.
I knew what I needed to do.