By the Time You Read This, I'll Be Dead (8 page)

I’m starting to feel anxious, so I log off. A tap on the door and Chip sticks his head in. “Whatcha doin’ now?”

If you only knew, Chip.

He eyes me and the computer. “Working on your story still?”

I don’t answer. He says, “Mind if I test something?”

He comes in and I get up out of the chair. I move to the bed. He powers on my PC and goes, “I sent you a message. I just want to make sure you got it.”

Don’t lie to me, Chip. All men are liars. I hate believing my dad is one of “those men.”

It’s hard to watch him sitting there, keying into my computer, hoping to key into my brain.

It’s the one place you have no access to, Chip.

“Is it a Word file? I won’t read it—unless you want me to.” He swivels his head and smiles. There’s, like, terror in his eyes.

I can’t look at him.

He turns back. “Everything seems to be working.”

Except me. I’m broken.

“Okay. All your files are set to ‘shared.’ I promise not to read them unless you ask me to.”

I wish I could trust him, my own dad. He’s the one who hacked into my computer and found out I’d been on the suicide boards again. Strictly verboten.

I wonder how he’d react to Through-the-Light. If he believes a Web site has the power to influence me to kill myself. Would he find the comfort I do in knowing I’m not alone? In feeling acceptance for my decision? No one’s putting thoughts in my head, Chip, that weren’t already there.

He stands. “How about a bowl of Ben and Jerry’s?”

That’s his answer to everything. It used to be mine too. Now I have a more permanent solution.

I get up to follow him.

I can’t sleep. I know what’s bugging me. I need to choose a method. The last method I chose was absolutely wrong.

To sit at my desk, I have to strap on the neck brace. It’s a pain.

I log on to Through-the-Light and select
WTG
.

Bullet to the Head

Effectiveness: 4–5 if done properly.

Time: If well aimed, instantaneous.

Availability: Easy in USA; more difficult in countries where guns are illegal, such as UK, China, Australia.

Pain: 4–5.

Notes: If you don’t die, you will experience excruciating pain and brain damage. Lots of willpower is needed to fire a gun at yourself. Bullet can miss vital parts in brain or deflect off skull. Preferable to use a shotgun rather than a pistol. For ammunition use .458 Winchester Magnum or soft-point slugs with .44 Magnum. People usually survive single .22 shots to the temple. Extremely messy for people who have to clean up after you.

No blood this time. Chip and Kim are still recovering from all the blood after the times I slit my wrists. Yeah, I failed more than once trying that method.

Someone’s coming. I have to power down.

Lie in bed. Play dead.

It’s Chip again. I know his breathing. I make sure he hears mine so he’ll leave.

As I lie there, breathing audibly, I’m thinking, Stupid screen name, hervehotsu. Why’d he have to make it so memorable?

I haven’t used IM in years. Not since the last time someone wrote, “r u the freak who slit her wrists? Why didnt u die?” That was long before Chip and Kim took my computer away the last time. When I got it back, it was understood: New start. Renewed trust. But we will restrict your usage with parental controls and traces, the way we did before. Please, Daelyn, promise. No suicide chat rooms.

I want to tell them, Kim, Chip. Computers don’t kill.

I wait for his footsteps on the stairs.

All this up and down, bed to desk, is taking it out of me.

The weakness, the emotional and physical impotence makes me do it. I check my old screen name. It’s there. How weird. People could be history, gone for years, and their IM accounts would still be active. If I’d known, I never would’ve laid tracks.

I create a new screen name. Random letters and numbers. It makes me flash back to this time an IM popped up on my screen: “I saw you in the shower in gym. Guess what? I took your picture.”

Immediately I deleted the three people on my buddy list. I’d only created that list because of a group project in history and someone suggested we talk on IM. So we wouldn’t have to meet in person, of course. So they wouldn’t be seen with me.

As soon as I got that message, my heart beat a hole in my chest. Oh my God, I thought. What if they put that picture on the Internet?

For weeks and weeks I searched. MySpace. Facebook. Twitter. I got so paranoid I couldn’t go to school. I made myself sick with worry. I cried so much Mom called the doctor.

Like a doctor could fix me.

I hate IM. It takes all my willpower to add him to my buddy list. As I key “hervehotsu,” my pulse races. “r u there?”

No response.

I let out a relieved breath. He’s not online. Maybe the “O” is a zero. I try “herveh0tsu. u there?”

Nothing. Okay.

I stare at the blank screen.

For the hell of it, I key, “Can I borrow your laptop for a while? Not forever. This is . . .”

I key, “D.”

I look at it. It reminds me how that girl changed my D to an A. It also reminds me of the last time someone called me D, and how I don’t want to remember that—

I delete D and key “daelyn.”

Before my nerves are shot, I hit
enter
.

— 12 DAYS, 11 DAYS —

Another reason I hate the weekends—it doesn’t matter where I am or what I’m doing or how my parents attempt to distract me, I’m always alone with myself. The insults build in my brain until I’m ready to explode.

“Big fat farting pig.”

“Fatso. Lardo. Chubette.”

“Blimper. Heifer. Fudge pudge.” I’ve heard them all. Some out loud. Some online.

The more I hurt, the more I ate. Yeah, I was a blimp. A doctor told me once I was twice as heavy at five feet tall as I should be. He said with a smile, “You know, there’s a skinny person inside there trying to get out.” He thought he was being helpful. He gave me the idea to kill two birds with one stone. Make that two people—one trapped inside the other.

The moving didn’t help. Changing schools all the time. Kim and Chip rationalized it with Chip’s job—new assignments, promotions. They were embarrassed by me, their sick, fat, psychotic creation. I should’ve figured out sooner how we moved every time I . . . what did Kim call it? Regressed? She got that one right out of the psychology text.

I call it wacked out. Exceeding my hypersensitivity limit. My limit is one nasty comment in the hall. “Double wide, step aside.” While I slit my wrist, the voice plays over and

Over and

Over and

over and overand

overandoverand

overandoverandoverandoverandover and,

SHUT UP.

I didn’t know what self-immolation was, at first.

Self-immolation

Effectiveness: 3–4.

Time: Seconds to days.

Availability: 2–3.

Pain: 5.

Notes: If you have access to gasoline and a match, you can easily set yourself on fire. This is, however, one of the most agonizing ways to die. If you survive, you will be disfigured for the rest of your life. It’s recommended that you mix an explosive with the gasoline to make it burn much quicker. Make sure you’re far away from medical help.

No way I’m getting into pyrotechnics. No flare for the dramatic, so to speak. The method I choose this time will have to leave no residue—no blood, no excrement, no ashes to ashes.

Drowning

Effectiveness: 3–4.

Time: 5 minutes to die of drowning; 20 minutes to die of hypothermia

Availability: 1.

Pain: 1.

Notes: Find deep (cold) water in a remote area. Weigh yourself down with rocks in your pockets. Tie your hands and legs together. You can be revived from cold water drowning after several hours, since the cold retards terminal brain damage. Warmer water does not have the advantage of hypothermia (loss of consciousness, thus pain), but is more effective in making sure you stay dead.

Very, very frightening.

Chip knocks and I jump. He pops his head in and says, “Were you on just now? I detected a user.”

Casually, I darken the screen. As he’s checking out my PC I reach for my paperback.

Chip goes, “Huh. It must be one of the neighbors. I thought the network was secure.” He rubs the back of his neck as he leaves.

There’s no lake or river nearby. But don’t people die in bathtubs? Babies drown. Mothers drown their children. Didn’t I read a person could drown in an inch of water?

It occupies my mind. Drowning, drowning, drowning. People drown in bathtubs. How scary could it be?

It doesn’t have to be cold water. I hate the cold. Warm water would be soothing, relaxing. I could handle the panic. I would need to weigh myself down.

A plan crystallizes in my brain. It’s like a vision.

Daelyn’s Destiny.

About a week after we moved in, Chip said, “Why don’t I build you a bookcase?”

He went to Lowe’s and got planks and cinder blocks.

Kim said, “Why didn’t you just buy a preassembled shelving unit?”

There was an awkward silence. Chip was forced to say it. “The metal strips are sharp.”

Kim sucked in a breath.

The cinder blocks are perfect weights. I close my eyes and see it. Me, at the bottom of the bathtub with my hair flowing out in all directions. For once in my life, I’m beautiful.

— 10 DAYS —

He’s not there after school. Good. Problem solved. I’ll wear my brace to the end. I can read in bed by shifting from side to side for ten days. I can prop up on pillows. I can key in the Final Forum for short stretches of time. There’s a lot to key still if I’m going to tell everything, but ten days is an eternity.

Out of nowhere he appears, lugging a stack of laptops. The sight of him makes my breathing speed up. He plops down beside me. “I have three for you to choose from”—Hervé is draped around his neck—“depending on what you want to do. If you’re a gamer, this Dell has a two-gig Core Duo, another gig of RAM, and a screaming video card.” He sets it on my lap.

Why? Why would he . . . ?

“This LG has a blinding screen, but the snakeskin is cool. It comes with a wad of junkware you’ll never use.” He slides it on top of the first computer. My thighs feel the weight.

He can’t be serious.

“This Samsung, which I call the Mini Me, has touch screen and a fingerprint scanner, if you’re security minded. Plus, at two pounds it’s ultralight. I just got it.”

He balances the computer on top. It’s the one he was fooling with the other day. Hervé scrabbles around so he’s facing me, his beady eyes boring into my nostrils.

I want to ask him a vital question. Not the rat.

“I got the first two on Craigslist.”

That’s not it.

“The Mini Me was an early birthday present. Ask me why.”

I don’t care. But why would you give me . . . ?

“They’re Wi-Fi, of course.”

That’s it. As long as I have Internet access, I can get to Through-the-Light.

He waits a minute, looking smug. Just for that I decide to take his new one.

“Phenomenal choice. Enjoy the tunes I’ve downloaded. You can borrow my periphs too, if you want. Or anything else.”

He’s not supposed to be happy about it.

He won’t get anything from me. I should tell him the truth, that I don’t put out, that I never will no matter how nice he seems or how generous or desperate.

But damn. I want this laptop.

I slide it into my book bag at my feet, retrieve
Desire on the Moor
and a pen. I write in the margin,
i only need it for 10 days. i’ll pay you 5 dollars a day.

He reads the note and goes, “Make it ten dollars.”

A hundred dollars? Forget it. I reach down to grab the laptop, and his hand spreads over mine. Reflexively, I snatch my hand away.

“I’m kidding,” he says. “I don’t want your money.”

Which means I’m right about what he does want.

He adds, “Just IM me. Okay?”

I really want the laptop.
ok
I lie.

He sets the rejected computers on the bench beside him—the other side of him—pulls a paperback from his pocket and scoots closer. DON’T. I stick him in the arm with my pen.

“Ouch,” he goes, but scoots away. “Stab me, why don’t you?”

My pleasure.

He rubs his arm. “I didn’t know if you had the next book in the series, so I got it. Thought I’d start at the end and work backward.” He opens the back cover of his book.

I recognize it.
Desire in the Mine
.

He settles in to read.

Now I can’t read. He’s . . . unnerving.

I sit there faking it, with a rat snarling at me.

“Amazing,” he says. “Compelling. Intriguing. What I don’t understand is what Charles is getting out of this relationship. Maggie Louise is a slut.”

No, she’s not! I shoot him a fiery glare, which he deflects with the book in front of his face.

Okay, she is. But she gets what she wants in the end.

“Do you know the girl in your school with the long black hair and bangs?” he asks.

Does he mean JenniferJessica?

“She has a blue streak down one side.”

JenniferJessica.

He goes, “She reminds me of Maggie Louise.”

What? I shift to look at him, but he’s reading intently, smiling.

She’s nothing like Maggie Louise. How well does he know JenniferJessica? I want to tell him, She’s not your type. How do I know what type he is? What boy wouldn’t desire someone like JenniferJessica?

He’s yanking my chain. I hate him.

Kim arrives. I pack my gear and head for the car. This time he doesn’t follow. Good.

“What’s in your bag?” Kim asks as I meld with the bucket seat and latch my seat belt. “Can I see?” She extends her hand.

I must clutch my bag tighter because Kim retracts her arm. “That’s okay. I trust you.”

She’ll check it later.

As we’re driving away, I watch Santana loping up the steps to the house next door. The computers are slung under his arm and Hervé is riding his shoulder.

“Is that where he lives?” Kim asks.

He turns and waves.

I want to wave back, but . . . I catch myself.

We slow for a yellow light and I don’t know why, but I turn my torso and look back to see if he’s still there.

Kim says, “You like him. I can tell.”

I shut down. You can’t tell anything.

The little laptop, the Mini Me, is great. My fingers adjust to the stiff keyboard right away.

The Internet connection is automatic. I wonder if Chip can detect a new user or an added piece of hardware. At this point, I don’t really care. He can’t get into Through-the-Light.

I lie in bed and log on.

Three J_Doe’s have replied to my last Final Forum entry. People have been verbally and physically abused. Fag is a standard. Dyke, slut, homo, whore, Arab. That’s a new one. One girl was called . . . I don’t even want to say it. By her mother, no less.

Purge, I think. Get rid of it. I switch over to
Sexual Assault
. The last entry is by J_Doe022292:
They got me. The boys who were after me. They got me after school and beat and raped me.

I key, “He waited for me, to walk me to my locker. Every day for a week. He even said, ‘Hey, D. I’ve been waiting for you.’”

My breath comes in deep, rasping gulps. It all comes rushing back. “His friends called him Toomey. He was popular. He always had crowds of people around him, girls especially.”

So why would he choose a girl like me? If I could’ve seen through my delusional state at the time, I’d have known. We didn’t talk. He just took my backpack, slung it over his shoulder, and walked with me.

So cool.

“I couldn’t believe he was walking with me. When people passed us, he’d wave. I’d hear them snicker behind our backs, but he didn’t seem to care. He liked me for who I was.”

How stupid. He didn’t know who I was. How could he?

“He’d leave me at my locker and lean in like he was going to kiss me. He’d say in this sexy voice, ‘Thank you for our special time, D.’”

I’d wish and pray, Kiss me. Go ahead. You can if you want.

I’d never been kissed by a boy. Ever since elementary, girls were always bragging about how boys kissed them and gave them rings. It seemed every girl in the world had had a boyfriend by then except me.

The memory of Toomey jolts me back to reality and I double over, holding my stomach. But it hurts my neck and I feel like throwing up. I hunch over the computer and key rapid fire, “The day it happened I was in the lunch line and people were butting in front of me. I let them. I always let them. I had to go back to my locker because I forgot my lunch money, and he was there. Toomey. With his friends. They were older boys, eighth graders. They started elbowing each other when they saw me coming, and Toomey called, ‘Yo, D. Whassup?’ My heart fluttered. I spoke the first words I’d ever spoken to him: ‘I forgot my lunch money.’”

“‘Oh, yeah?’

“He came up behind me and spun me around. He took the five dollar bill I’d gotten from my purse and held it over my head. When I reached for it, he yanked it away. He was grinning. I started giggling and going, ‘Give it to me,’ and he said, ‘Come and get it, D.’ He backed up and up and I followed him all the way to the door of the boys’ restroom. He went in and I stopped.

“Suddenly I was surrounded by Toomey’s gang. They pushed me in through the door. I was squealing, but more like girls do when boys are teasing them, because I thought it was just a game.”

It was supposed to be a game!

“Inside the bathroom, one guy blocked the door and another shoved me forward. ‘Go on, Toomey,’ one of them said. ‘Kiss her. You said she wants it.’ He held my arms in back. Toomey smiled—make that leered—then leaned in so close I could smell his sour breath. The other guys chanted, ‘Do it, do it. . . .’ I looked at Toomey and his eyes changed to black.”

He scared me. It was like he changed into a different person. A monster.

“He leaned in to kiss me, but I turned away. He grabbed my chin and smashed his lips on mine so hard it bent my head and I hit the wall. The guys all had me pinned against the wall while Toomey swiped off his lips, like the taste of me was disgusting. He spit into the sink, and went, ‘Who’s next?’”

I broke away and ran for the door, but they got me.

“I tried to scream, but a hand clamped over my mouth. Someone felt my boob and said, ‘Hey, there’s a lot under there.’ He squeezed so hard it hurt. ‘Toomey, you said you wondered what a fatty paddy looks like naked.’ At the sink, Toomey eyed me up and down.”

I struggled with all my might to twist free, but the guys were strong and determined.

“One guy lifted up my blouse, and they all went, ‘Whoa.’ My bra strap had broken in the struggle. For a second their grips loosened, and I made a run for the door, but someone caught my skirt, so I swung around and dodged into a toilet stall. A hand grabbed my leg and I slipped on the wet floor and fell and they tried to drag me out, but I held on to the toilet and they couldn’t. I felt my skirt being lifted up and I flattened myself on the floor and squeezed my legs together. One of them said, ‘Let’s go, dude. Leave her be.’ Toomey snapped, ‘I say when we go.’ He tried to pull down my underwear, but he couldn’t get it very far.”

Please go, I prayed. I smashed my face to the toilet basin and shut my eyes, praying to God.

“Toomey put his foot on my rear and said, ‘Blubber butt.’ I felt pressure, like he was going to crush me. ‘Rat us out and we’ll kill you, pig.’ The stall door slammed shut.”

As my hands lift off the keyboard, they’re shaking.

The guys laughed. Each one smacked the stall door before they left. Then I was alone, trembling and wheezing and pulling up my pants.

That goes beyond bullying. It’s always what you’re scared of—what they might do to you physically.

What they
will
do if you ever trust anyone.

I look up at the monitor, where J_Doe030393 has written:
I got raped by my stepdad and his friend.

What they did wasn’t rape, but I felt violated.

I’m still back there. Sticky pee on the floor and I’m stuck to it.

I smell the pee on my hands sometimes. My fingers stick together. Sometimes I have to wash my hands until they’re scraped clean and raw.

J_Doe030393 goes on:
He’d lock the door after everyone went to bed. I couldn’t tell on him. He said he’d take me out in a field and kill me. I wish he had.

If you’re here, he did kill you.

I’m caught between then and now. I can’t leave and I can’t move forward. They jammed the stall so hard it wouldn’t open. I have to crawl underneath to get out, and I’m stuck, I’m so fat. At last I writhe and wiggle myself free. I find my class in the lunch line and Toomey is there, talking to my teacher. “Her.” He points. “She was in the boys’ bathroom. I’ve seen her in there before hiding in the stall to watch us guys take a piss. She’s a perv.”