Give me a smile

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic
A jeering voice pushes a boy to suicide. Remember to comment, like, or/and subscribe!

Submitted: July 27, 2012

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Submitted: July 27, 2012



Where do we go when we die? Nobody knows. The only destination without a route. Yep, you guessed it: death. No, it doesn't hurt, if you're wondering. No one comes dressed in black with a scythe. The light at the end of the tunnel IS a train. It feels… nice. I wish I paid more attention in school. Regret is the first thing you learn to drag around. Chains, if you will, for those metaphorically inclined. How did I die? Does it matter? I'll leave it to the end, for later. Anyways, no matter how grisly you die or how chewed up and mangled you get, you end up the way you see yourself in your head. And, this is important, if you ARE wondering, it probably means you intend to do yourself in. The question is: how? So many ways for one to leave the living. Hang yourself, shoot yourself, take some pills, jump, take a knife and go up not across the street because that's what winners do, drowning yourself, jumping in front of a semi. The important thing is to be creative. Afraid of snakes? Have a rattler bite you. Afraid of clowns? Find a serial clown-murderer. Okay, the last one is a bit off, I admit. With so many suggestions, one could guess I committed suicide. I guess you can say that you're dead wrong. But how did you pass? Patience is a virtue, young one. Speaking of which, have you given it a chance? It's dreadfully easy, believe me. Let yourself be tricked by the illusions your mind plays on you. Fall into the embrace of lunacy for it is a gentle pillow above all else. Must you persist the vain journey you so desperately seek to end? Allow yourself to slip away. I shall give you points for originality. You've chosen poison, rat poison to be exact. Kudos. Well? Eat it. Take the damn crumbs and shove them down your throat! Oh, I see. You're nervous. Most delectable. That's funny. I find that hysterical. But, seriously, fucking kill yourself. Erase that blotch, that mar off the face of the planet. Do it. Quitting? Little bitch. Put the stuff away before Mom gets home. No, she's out late and so's Dad. Want the easy way out? Go to the kitchen. Yeah, you catch on pretty quick. Original stuff you got here. Jump from the second floor with a knife pinned against your chest. Good stuff. Now, do it. Feel the weightlessness. Too late to back out! Don't worry about your face; it's the least of your worries. By the way, I lied about everything before. I don't know more than you on that subject. But I did promise you I'd tell you how I died: I impaled myself on a kitchen knife because a voice in my head told me to. Confused? Can't think straight? Well, you did hit your head pretty hard. Yeah, you cracked it pretty good. Let me save you the trouble: I'm you, idiot. You killed us. The knife is what you're most concerned about, huh? Go ahead, try to pull it out. Oh yeah, you can't move. You're bleeding awful quick. Think anyone will find you? Do you HOPE anyone will?

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