I'll be there for you (when the rain starts to fall)

I went to this writing Web site I used to be a member of, years ago this evening. Back in the day, I was a "preferred member," of the site. I had a portfolio of a couple dozen short stories that people told me were really good, they got 4- and 5-star ratings consistently, and they were probably decent.

I let the site lapse for a year or two, and when I returned in 2005, I found that my portfolio had been deleted. I, of course, typed these stories straight into the site, and I have no record of them anywhere.

When I returned back then, in 2005, I wrote three things. Upon signing in this evening, I found that they're still there. The three things I wrote four years ago. I was 20 years old, a sophomore in college, writing short stories because that's what I wanted to do with my life. I wanted to be a writer.

Now, four years later, I find these stories again, and I wonder where it all went. Where did the ideas for short stories go? Where did that drive go that I used to have, when I wrote short stories all the time? Now I try to write long, involved novellas that I lose steam on halfway (or a quarter of the way) through that never go anywhere. Maybe my short stories weren't Pulitzer Prize-winning, and maybe I was writing about things I had no idea about, but they were mine.

I'm going to put the shorter of the two on here. I don't know where the idea for this came from. I'm going to put it straight in as-is, so there may be typos or whatever. But when I read this, I wondered where this person went.

I don't think I'm going to leave a note.

That's what everyone does, you know? Whenever someone kills themselves, there's usually a note. It tells whoever is unlucky enough to find the body why they did it, who they're blaming, and sometimes what is supposed to happen to their stuff. "Give all my money to charity" or "I want my sister Joyce to have my puppy" or even "I leave you all with the guilt of knowing that you drove me to this."

No, definitely no note. I don't think that anyone would really understand it. A note would make things worse.

You're probably asking yourself at this point why I would do it. Why a pretty, popular 18-year-old cheerleader would be sitting at a table with a bottle of vodka and ten codeine pills in front of her.

You want the truth?

Truth is, I'm bored. I'm just tired of living.

I'm not depressed. I've never been raped, beaten, treated badly, or even dumped. I just don't feel like there's anything left for me to do.

One pill. A swig of the vodka.

I'm supposed to graduate next month. And then do what? Go to college. I got a full ride to the State college for cheerleading. I didn't even know schools did that. But there she was, that cheering scout wearing way too much eyeshadow (it was blue for Chrissakes) and that big, blonde hair teased within an inch of its life. That was probably the style back when she was a cheerleader. In the 60's.

So my college is paid for. But I don't actually want to go to college. Try telling my mom that.

"For God's sake, Trinity. You'll never meet a man if you don't go to college."

She doesn't care what I do, really. And I'm not saying that in a, "Oh, my parents don't love me, guess I'll kill myself" sort of way. I just mean that she really doesn't care what I do. I've been drinking since I was 14. I've been smoking since I could drive. I got a car for my 16th birthday. I've been fucking guys, sometimes in mom and dad's bed, for. . .How many years? I've lost track.

I've basically got the parents that are every high schooler's wet dream. They sign the report cards, come to the games when I'm cheering. . .do all the good parent stuff. Mom even makes my lunches. Usually bologna, or peanut butter and strawberry jelly. Sometimes she'll make nachos. I bet you didn't know they were good cold.

Pill number two. Two shots.

Seriously, though. I'm done. There's nothing left for me. Seems to me that dying is the only way to erase the boredom. I'm never going to go anywhere. Never going to do anything.

It's not like I'm Natalie Keys. She's known since she was, like, 5 that she wanted to be a doctor. Got a scholarship to fucking Princeton. She turned down offers from Yale and Duke University in North Carolina. That girl's going places.

It's not like I'm Radeesha Jones. She wants to be the next Oprah. She's been hosting our school's gay little morning talk show that lasts maybe 15 minutes since we were freshmen. She's got the look and the personality for it. All she needs is the millions.

It's not even like I'm Jenny Figler. She had to drop out in January because she had her kid, Emily. Beautiful baby girl. I went to her baby shower and gave her a pink blanket, made out of the softest fleece I'd ever felt. She's living with her boyfriend, this guy she met over the internet named Ted. They're getting married in the fall. She says this is all she's ever wanted. To be a young mother and to get married.

I've never wanted anything like that. I've never wanted. . .anything.

Pills three and four. Two more shots.

I guess it's a good thing mom had these painkillers left over from her knee surgery. Because otherwise, it would have been a bitch to find something that worked. We don't keep any kid of medication in the house, except for aspirin. And I wasn't going to use a gun. Too nasty. And I wouldn't hang myself. Too dramatic. I'm just gonna fade away.

That's what I'd do anyway, you know. Fade away. Once I got to college? Just fade away. Sure, I'd be a cheerleader. But what would I do once there was nothing to cheer for? Once all the uniforms were all hung up, and I had just my academics to look forward to.

I don't want to do anything. I don't want to be anything.

I'm kind of a waste of space. Shit, I'm getting dizzy.

Five, six, seven. One, two, three.

I've never actually liked the taste of vodka. Nasty stuff. Tastes like rubbing alcohol. But that's what people are drinking these days, I guess.

I wonder if I'm dying now. It sure feels like it. It's like my eyelids are twitching, and there's this weird roaring in my ears.

It sounds like that time I almost drowned at the beach when I was 4. All I can remember about that was trying to cry, but instead, getting a mouthful of salty water. I think i swallowed a little fish. But that sound. I could never forget that sound. It was like everything was caving in on me.

This is all I have left.

Eight, nine, ten. One big gulp.

I certainly feel like I'm dying now. I've never been so dizzy in my life. Even when I fell off of that pyramid. Sydney wanted to be on the top, but I insisted. I guess she'll be able to be on the top now.

Maybe I should have written a note. I hope someone takes care of my fish. And that someone knows how valuable my CD collection is.

But most of all, I hope they know I wasn't unhappy. Not really.

I was just bored.

And now I'm just tired.

So I'm going to lay my head down on the table.

Good night.

So there's that. It's. . .it's kind of morbid, and it's cynical and it's. . .how I used to write. Why can't I still do that? Sure, it's angsty, but it was. . .I don't know.

I'm not even entirely sure why I'm putting this here. I don't tend to like to share my fiction writing.

I don't know. I miss fiction.