Jay Asher - Thirteen Reasons Why

It? Okay, I’ll say it. I thought about suicide.

The anger, the blame, it’s all gone. Her mind is made up. The word is not a struggle for her anymore.

After everything I’ve talked about on these tapes, everything that occurred, I thought about suicide. Usually, it was just a passing thought.

I wish I would die.

I’ve thought those words many times. But it’s a hard thing to say out loud. It’s even scarier to feel you might mean it.

But sometimes I took things further and wondered how I would do it. I would tuck myself into bed and wonder if there was anything in the house I could use.

A gun? No. We never owned one. And I wouldn’t know where to get one.

What about hanging? Well, what would I use? Where would I do it? And even if I knew what and where, I could never get beyond the visual of someone finding me-swinging-inches from the floor.

I couldn’t do that to Mom and Dad.

So how did they find you? I’ve heard so many rumors.

It became a sick sort of game, imagining ways to kill myself. And there are some pretty weird and creative ways.

You took pills. That, we all know. Some say you passed out and drowned in a bathtub full of water.

It came down to two lines of thinking. If I wanted people to think it was an accident, I’d drive my car off the road. Someplace where there’s no chance of survival. And there are so many places to do that on the outskirts of town. I’ve probably driven by each of them a dozen times in the past couple weeks.

Others say you drew the bathwater, but fell asleep on your bed while it was filling. Your mom and dad came home, found the bathroom flooded, and called your name. But there was no answer.

Then there are these tapes.

Can I trust the twelve of you to keep a secret? To not let my parents find out what really happened? Will you let them believe it was an accident if that’s the story going around?

She pauses.

I don’t know. I’m not sure.

She thinks we might tell. She thinks we’ll walk up to our friends and say, “Do you want to know a horrible secret?”

So I’ve decided on the least painful way possible.

Pills.

My stomach pulls in, wanting to rid my body of everything. Food. Thoughts. Emotions.

But what kind of pills? And how many? I’m not sure. And I don’t have much time to figure it out because tomorrow…I’m going to do it.

Wow.

I sit down on the curb of a dark, quiet intersection.

I won’t be around anymore…tomorrow.

Most houses on the connecting four blocks give little indication that anyone is awake inside. A few windows flicker with the faint blue light of late-night TV. About a third of them have porch lights on. But for the rest, other than a cut lawn or a car out front, it’s hard to tell anyone lives there at all.

Tomorrow I’m getting up, I’m getting dressed, and I’m walking to the post office. There, I’ll mail a bunch of tapes to Justin Foley. And after that, there’s no turning back. I’ll go to school, too late for first period, and we’ll have one last day together. The only difference being that I’ll know it’s the last day.

You won’t.

Can I remember? Can I see her in the halls on that last day? I want to remember the very last time I saw her.

And you’ll treat me how you’ve always treated me. Do you remember the last thing you said to me?

I don’t.

The last thing you did to me?

I smiled, I’m sure of it. I smiled every time I saw you after that party, but you never looked up. Because your mind was made up.

If given the chance, you knew you might smile back. And you couldn’t. Not if you wanted to go through with it.

And what was the last thing I said to you? Because trust me, when I said it, I knew it was the last thing I’d ever say.

Nothing. You told me to leave the room and that was it. You found ways to ignore me every time after that.

Which brings us to one of my very last weekends. The weekend following the accident. The weekend of a new party. A party I didn’t attend.

Yes, I was still grounded. But that’s not the reason I didn’t go. In fact, if I wanted to go, it would’ve been much easier than last time because I was house-sitting that weekend. A friend of my father’s was out of town and I was watching his house for him, feeding his dog, and keeping an eye on things because there was supposed to be a rager a few doors down.

And there was. Maybe not as big as the last party, but definitely not one for beginners.

Even if I thought you might be there, I still would’ve stayed home.

With the way you ignored me at school, I assumed you would ignore me there, too. And that was a theory too painful to prove.

I’ve heard people say that after a particularly bad experience with tequila, just the smell of it can make them barf. And while this party didn’t make me barf, just being near it-just hearing it-twisted my stomach into knots.

One week was nowhere near enough time to get over that last party.

The dog was going crazy, yapping every time someone walked by the window. I would crouch down, yelling at him to get away from there, but was too afraid to go over and pick him up-too afraid someone might see me and call my name.

So I put the dog in the garage, where he could yap all he wanted.

Wait, I remember it now. The last time I saw you.

The bass thumping down the block was impossible to shut out. But I tried. I ran through the house, closing curtains and twisting shut every blind I could find.

I remember the last words we said to each other.

Then I hid myself in the bedroom with the TV blasting. And even though I couldn’t hear it, I could feel the bass pumping inside of me.

I shut my eyes, tight. I wasn’t watching the TV anymore. I wasn’t in that room anymore. I could only think back to that closet, hiding inside it with a pile of jackets surrounding me. And once again, I started rocking back and forth, back and forth. And once again, no one was around to hear me cry.

In Mr. Porter’s English class, I noticed your desk was empty. But when the bell rang and I walked into the hall, there you were.

Eventually the party died down. And after everyone walked by the window again, and the dog stopped yapping, I walked through the house reopening the curtains.

We almost bumped into each other. But your eyes were down so you didn’t know it was me. And together, we said it. “I’m sorry.”

After being shut in for so long, I decided to catch a breath of fresh air. And maybe, in turn, be a hero.

Then you looked up. You saw me. And there, in your eyes, what was it? Sadness? Pain? You moved around me and tried pushing your hair away from your face. Your fingernails were painted dark blue. I watched you walk down the long stretch of hallway, with people knocking into me. But I didn’t care.

I stood there and watched you disappear. Forever.

Once again, everybody, D-4. Courtney Crimsen’s house. The site of this party.

No, this tape is not about Courtney…though she does play a part. But Courtney has no idea what I’m about to say because she left just as things got going.

I turn and walk in the opposite direction of Courtney’s house.

My plan was to just walk by the place. Maybe I’d find someone struggling to put a key in their car door and I’d give them a ride home.

I’m not going to Courtney’s. I’m going to Eisenhower Park, the scene of Hannah’s first kiss.

But the street was empty. Everyone was gone.

Or so it seemed.

And then, someone called my name.

Over the tall wooden fence at the side of her house, a head poked up. And whose head would that be? Bryce Walker’s.

God, no. This can only end one way. If anyone can shovel more shit onto Hannah’s life, it’s Bryce.