Final Words, I Hope

This story contains themes of suicide, self-harm, and sexual abuse. With that noted, please enjoy <3

3/31/2025

Look, I know I am just a character. It's not necessarily that the sick bastard who decided to bring me into existence has appeared and been like "Yeah, sorry about making a character where I decided to test murphy's laws to the fullest of its extent". I wish. That would insinuate whoever wrote me cares about my well-being. That is bullshit.

No, I know that I am a character because there is no fucking way that someone's life could possibly go so wrong. You, the lovely reader, or at least I hope there's a reader, because otherwise my diary is looking really dumb, but none the less, you are reading this. You might be thinking "Oh no, did they get rejected by their crush?", and to that I say, yes, yes, I was, but there a lot of other things to. I believe that one of my earlier journal entries lists them all, but in case only one page of my diary survives when they are searching for my body, I will give you the run-through.

My mom killed herself when I was two, so I'm guessing her side of the family is where I get my depression from. Then, at the age of three, my dad drunk drove himself into a very restful sleep, but jokes on him, I don't remember him anyway. I moved in with my grandma, who had a stroke when I was five. So, then I ended up in the system, were I stayed until I was seven, before I got adopted by this sweet old man. Turns out he wasn't that sweet, which I learned when he tries to touch me, but luckily the neighbors heard me crying and called child security services, so I was back at the orphanage the very same year. This time, I stayed there for another five years, before getting adopted by my best friends family, who were all incredibly sweet, and at first, my BFF/sister was as happy as me, I'll some back to that later. Then, right after my thirteenth birthday, I asked my crush of three years out, and they said no, effectively breaking my heart and sending me spiraling. This caused my new family to start paying more attention to me and my mental health, which upset my sister, who loves attention. Then, at fourteen, my adopted dad got into a car crash, dying, and sending me spiraling. My adopted mom instantly started helping me more than her actual daughter, since her daughter was always independent, and that pissed my sister of. So my sister told me that I better leave, get out of her and her mom's life, and die. So, I ran away. And that is how I'm here, a fourteen-year-old, in the back alley of a fucking taco bell, armed with only a bottle of pills to overdose with, a pen, and the journal you are reading.

Really, it was bound to happen. My mom did it. My will to live did it. And really, without my will to live, what am I living for. So, if things go to plan, this will be the last time that I am writing in this cheap plastic journal my sister gave me before it all went downhill, when we were best friends. It's probably the police reading this, and I just want to say, this is suicide. No need for an investigation, I don't want to fuck up anyone else's lives. Feel free to use me as an example of what depression can do, and I know it sounds hypocritical, because it is, but just because I am going through with it doesn't mean you have to. You still have a chance. Everyone has a chance. I just don't care at this point. So, my last words to this made-up world that was made exclusively to torture me, just remember. Stay alive.

4/16/2025

I didn't think that I would survive. Really, I was actually looking forward to being with everyone else who has ever cared about me in the afterlife. But I made one big mistake. It saved my life. Much to my disdain. I had my phone in my pocket. And my adopted mom actually cared. So, even though I managed to get the pills down, and even blacked out before anyone found me, they found me none the less by tracking my location. I find it funny. Everyone around me dies, but I can't. Maybe the author didn't reach the word amount? Maybe that would have been a boring ending? But no matter the reason, I am still here.

Right now, I am in a hospital bed. Something about trying to save my life. They haven't found my journal yet. They don't know all the shit that drove me to do this. Honestly, I am thinking about burning the journal, but they no better than to let someone on suicide watch near an open flame. Either way, I am not staying here. I do not care if I literally die trying, actually I am hoping that, but please wish me luck in dying. Oh, and don't die. I really hope I don't have to tell you that again. Mainly because I would have to be alive to do that.

4/24/2025

I am pissed. I think you can tell why. I swear, people keep on saving me. Stab myself with a scalpel? Stitches and a therapist. Try to strangle myself with my IV plug? 24/7 supervision and more therapy. Try to jump of the hospital? PERSON SAVES ME, AND I GET EVEN MORE FUCKING THERAPY. Look, don't kill yourself, but if you see me, please kill me. I am begging you, since I clearly can't do it myself. Also kill the author if you ever see them, since they seemingly can't let me die. Wish me the best! God, I hope that Hell is accepting applications. Maybe the devil needs a helper or something.