Michael Ford - Suicide Notes

“You didn’t seem very excited about leaving when your parents talked about it yesterday,” Cat Poop said. “How come?”

I shrugged. I didn’t know what to say. Because here’s the weird thing: Sometimes I wish I could stay here forever. It’s like being in a castle with a moat around it. Sure, it’s a castle filled with crazy people, but at least no one can get in unless we let them in. Of course, we can’t get out either, but when you think about it, what’s so great about being out there? There’s too much out there that can hurt you. In here you don’t have to worry about it. You just have to worry about being molested by jocks. But like I said, I’m not thinking about that.

Cat Poop tried another question on me. “What do you want your life to be like when you leave here?” he asked me.

I thought about it for a minute. “I want to be so rich that I can buy my own island and live on it all by myself.”

You know what he said? “What about music? What about movies?”

“I’ll order them online,” I said. “Food, too. You can pretty much get anything online. Did you know you can even buy black widow spiders online?”

It’s true. Amanda and I looked it up one day when we were talking about how you could kill someone and get away with it. Just hypothetically, of course. I have enough problems without being a psychopath. Or sociopath. Whatever. Anyway, Amanda thought you could get a whole bunch of black widows, put them in a box, and mail it to whoever you wanted to kill. And it turns out, you can. They aren’t even that expensive, something like three bucks each.

“Even friends?” Cat Poop said.

“What do you think most people spend their time online doing?” I asked him. “Isn’t that the whole point of the internet, that you can pretend to be someone else so that a bunch of other people will like you? Practically every kid in my school has their own website. And believe me, they make themselves sound a lot more interesting than they really are. Seriously, does Jamie Kazinsky really think anyone is going to believe the pictures her cousin took with his digital camera were used in the Venezuelan edition of Seventeen ?”

“What about love?” Cat Poop asked me, not answering my question. I’m getting kind of tired of him doing that. Personally, I think it’s rude.

“What about it?” I asked back.

“If you’re all alone on the island, you won’t have anyone there who loves you,” he said.

“I think I’ll survive somehow,” I told him.

“Don’t you ever want to be in love?” he said.

I knew where he was going with that. Allie again. Man, he doesn’t give up. I guess he thinks one of these days I won’t realize what he’s doing and spill the beans. Here’s a clue, Cat Poop: There are no beans.

“What’s love, anyway?” I said. “I think it’s just something greeting-card makers made up and try to get us to believe in. Between you and me, I’d rather have an Xbox.”

Thankfully, my time was up right about then, and I escaped back to the ward, where it’s mostly safe. Rankin being the exception. But I haven’t seen him. He’s probably in his room reading Sports Illustrated and not being gay.

Later on I told Sadie about my session with Cat Poop. “What’s his obsession with love?” I asked her.

“I don’t know,” Sadie said. “But I think love is really important.”

I thought for a minute that she was messing with me. Then she looked around, like she was making sure no one was listening, and whispered, “Want to see something?”

She didn’t wait for me to answer. Instead, she dug around in her pocket and pulled something out. It was a piece of paper. She unfolded it and handed it to me.

It was a newspaper clipping. The headline was hero rescues girl from watery grave. I looked at Sadie. “This is about you,” I said.

She nodded. “Yeah,” she said. “I cut it out and kept it. I have a lot more at home. Sort of a suicide scrapbook. But this one’s my favorite.”

Alongside the article was a picture of a man. He had a round, happy face and bright blue eyes. He was going bald, and he had a thick moustache.

“That’s Sam,” Sadie said, seeing me looking at the picture.

“The one who saved you?” I asked her.

She nodded. “My guardian angel.”

At first I thought she was making a joke, but when I looked at her face, I knew she wasn’t. She was staring at the picture of Sam like it was a picture of Jesus or something. It creeped me out a little.

“Doesn’t it make you depressed reading this over and over?” I asked her.

“No,” said Sadie, sounding surprised that I would even ask. “It makes me happy.” She brought her knees up and wrapped her arms around them. “It makes me feel loved,” she said. “He loved me enough to save me.”

I followed her eyes to the picture of Sam. Did she really believe he loved her? He didn’t even know her when he went in after her. She was just someone who needed saving. She was acting like he was her father, or her boyfriend.

I folded up the article again and handed it to her. Before she put it back in her pocket, she kissed it, like it was a magic charm or something.

I still can’t believe she keeps that thing. It’s kind of crazy when you think about it. And I don’t understand why she thinks that guy—Sam—loves her. I mean, he was just doing the right thing. I think most people would jump in and try to help someone who was drowning.

Or maybe not. Maybe some people would just stand there and watch. I guess that’s why Sadie thinks this guy is so special. But it’s still weird that she’s all in love with him. I’m not sure who’s crazier, her or Rankin. Right now I’d say it’s a tie.

If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be? Just one. It can be anything—a physical thing you wish you had or didn’t have, a talent you’d like to have, anything. But you only get one.

That was the question we talked about in group today. You’d think that we all would have picked something to do with why we’re here. But mostly we didn’t. Juliet said she wished she could play the cello, because she’d like to be able to make people feel the way she does when she hears someone play. Sadie said she wished she could talk to dead people. Rankin said he wished he could throw a perfect spiral pass. And I said I wished I wasn’t afraid of heights.

Later, in my one-on-one, Cat Poop asked me if I’d noticed anything different about what I’d said compared to what everyone else said. I thought for a minute but couldn’t come up with anything.

“You were the only one who said you wanted to get rid of something,” he told me. “Everyone else wanted to add something to themselves, but you wanted to give something up. Why did you say you’d like to get rid of your fear of heights?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “It was just the first thing that came to me.”

It’s true, too. I am afraid of heights. I don’t even like going up in elevators past about six floors.

“What about that fear makes it the one thing you want to get rid of?” Cat Poop asked me.

I had to think about that for a while. Finally I said, “I guess because it keeps me from doing things I’d like to do.”

He asked me what kinds of things, and I told him I’ve always wanted to try skydiving, or maybe even bungee jumping. “But I’m afraid of heights,” I said. “So I can’t.”

“What is it about heights that you’re afraid of?” he asked me.

What a dumb question. Falling, of course. I’m afraid of falling. That’s probably why I dream about it a lot. Actually, what I said to the doc was that I’m afraid that suddenly I’ll have this uncontrollable urge to climb up on the railing of the bridge or run to the edge of the cliff or whatever and just throw myself off before anyone can stop me.