I am sitting on the edge of my bed in my room, examining the intricacies of the little black .32 revolver in my hand. The metal is cool to the touch, although the wooden butt is warm from the heat of my hand. It’s surprising how heavy the little object is, but I like it. Gives it a sense of authority and power. You’d be shocked just how easy it is to get a gun these days, even when your just 17 years old. All it took me was one trip to East Los Angeles in the middle of the night and 50 bucks.

A note is beside me on the bed, resting a few inches away from my hip. It is of  medium length and simple, and I think it gets the point across. It reads:

I am satisfied with that and am beginning to feel like I am ready to do it. I lift the weighty object up in my hand, pressing the barrel to my temple. I am serene as I do so, mostly because I have cried so much in the past year that I am pretty certain I have no more tears left. My heart beat is raging in my ears as my hand shakes slightly. I know once I pull that trigger, there is no going back. But what do I have left here? All I ever do is disappoint everyone, all this will be to them is one more disappointment. But once I am gone, they will be better off.

My thumb lifts, cocking back the little nub at the top of the gun. The little click noise it emits makes my stomach turn. I should hurry this up before I vomit on my clean carpet and leave two messes behind. My eyes shut as my finger slowly tightens on the trigger, gradually pressing it backwards. But there is a noise, someone is screaming something and before I know it I am being tackled onto my back.