|Reading these suicide pages you will find people seeking help and people offering their help. Some witness about suicide from real life experience, others who play along with me would pretend it's a children's game. Some make sick and cruel jokes about it, and angry people blame me for even mentioning the subject. You might also want to read my favourite answers. If you want your answer to be included here, fill in the form.|
What is the best way to kill yourself when you're under 13?
Quelle est la meilleure forme de suicide pour les moins de 13 ans?
|28 Sep 2003||Mouchette||I am pleased and moved to hear that it was so meaningful to some of you to enter my "favourites". I wanted to point out a new feature I made on the index page: try to roll over with your mouse on my little photo or just wait 2 minutes and you will see one of your texts appear in a sort a transparent "think bubble". This text is chosen among my favourites of the moment. I wonder if anybody has noticed it, it's there since a couple of months already. I might have made the feature too discreet....|
|28 Sep 2003||D. Ben Noble||Something, a trap - perhaps - which occupies me whilst drunk.|
|28 Sep 2003||Jody||taking pills|
|28 Sep 2003||Sara M. C.||Go to the homecoming football game, stand on the lights and in front of every one take two whole bottles of pain pills, wash them down with vodka, slit your wrists and after you have bled for a while, say peace, love and empathy, Kurt Cobain forever, then jump to you death while shouting damn you all.(this is how I would do it, I'm 14)|
|27 Sep 2003||Chris||Where does a 13 year old spend most of his/her time? Basically it's either at school or at home. So we ask can a child be suicidal about school? Of course he can! It's just that the 'child' only realises years and years later that his school days were not the best days of his life as we are incorrectly normally led to believe!
It all begins when you start assuming that your old school mates want to see you again. The fact that at school you were irrelevant and might have been forgotten doesn't enter your head. Meanwhile, you start lingering over the stationery and pleated trousers, take out your primary school excercise books and the old tie signed by all your back bench companions and scribbled with old cliches like "Keep in touch" and "We'll never forget you."
Two days later the nostalgia gets worse, so you send a tentative e-mail to a 'girl' you went to school with, wondering whatever happened to her and all those school friends you lost touch with. You immediately demand all the contact details of everyone and start firing 1,000-word epics across the country. "How about having a school reunion", you say. "Come on, it'll be fun". Of course, you're wagging your tail all over this school reunion business. After all, weren't you drop-dead popular at school, carried upon the shoulders of young lads with shining eyes and flushed cheeks? Didn't girls queue up after school skipping on their toes for just one glimpse of tousled hair hero you? Weren't you the up and always coming star of the football team?
Oh no, that was your friends. Suddenly like a rush of bad breath it all comes back to you. You were only there when it happened to them. And after all the inspired brain storming involved in the choosing of the bar and restaurant, after you send the last e-mail and hang up the last caller, realisation comes upon you that planning the school reunion was a very big, big mistake.
At school-leaving, you set controls for the heart of the sun. Years later, you have either taken the whole solar system with you or been frazzled to a crisp by the sun. And you find yourself at your school reunion, the one you planned, looking more like facing a job interview than someone on a fun night out, nervously chatting over your drinks (yes, you need a lot), balding heads and wrinkling faces. This wasn't what you had in mind when you started plotting on a Shakespearean scale. You hardly envisaged that you need strength for school reunions, because you need to be fairly secure to lay your life open to the scrutiny of your earliest critics. After all no one likes to admit to failing to become an astronaut or a rock star. And what if you turn up and everyone is richer, thinner, 'better' somehow than you?
School reunions are false hope. School reunions are unkind, all the more so since certain people may have stumbled on hard times, lost their jobs, looks, marriage or hair. School reunions are cruel reminders that you have been forgotten by all your companions, and when you return home, generally sad and with all dignity lost, you question not only the night out but the whole first part of your education and ponder- Are primary and secondary school days really the best days of our lives that our faith in history leads us to believe?
We start off with kindergarten and primary school, those seasons of cartoon character satchels and new pencil cases. For mothers, there's a clucking flurry of last-minute shopping for school clothes, sport shoes, colour coded plastic covers and stationery. For fathers, it's filling up the petrol tank for taxing children to school prior to a day at the office (but they are glad that they are going to get rid of you and your whaling, "at least for school time"). Children are excited, anxious, even terrified at the prospect of a whole new year- new teachers to know, new subjects and new expectations to wrestle with (yes, you're so stupid that you like the idea of work and challenges!). Some will be indifferent and envisage endless SMS tournaments on their mobile phones. Most of them are mourning the end of summer holidays, when there was more time for eating and playing, for laughter and silliness and sleeping to the max.
For thousands of children, school marks the start of that endless, boring to hell routine- up at seven, off to school 45 minutes later, home at two with homework, television, piano practice, television, some kind of evening class (religious, ballet or something), football training, television, supper, and another hour of blurred television screen before mum gets up and heaves them to bed at a reasonable hour. Next morning it's same thing, day in, day out until summer dawns again and thankfully it's the time when nothing much happens. Compared to summer holidays the other breaks are insignificant. The Christmas break is full of anxiety: too much money spent and family tensions rise to boiling temperatures. Easter may be a celebration of spring, but it's usually spent in swotting for the upcoming exams and too much chocolate eating. Summer, though is the season of sun, sea and sleeping to the max. It's blue sky, ice-creams, yellow sand and suntanned faces for three whole months.
But as all good things go, summer holidays get shorter. Year after year, parents start becoming pushy bores, and children find themselves in that awkward age marked by a new deep voice, hairy hands and limbs (not to mention the pubic area) and voila, they are suddenly ready to go to secondary school, going on 13 and already bored with life. One minute they are children, the next they are considering the mysteries of shaving and opposite sex and thinking that maybe they should have enjoyed their childhood more and not have started school at three and took the risk of being sucked into schooling too early. Maybe they shouldn't have taken a million ballet, piano, football and private lessons. Another bicycle ride would have been nice, while that first kiss should have been followed by a second and a third. And young Lucy would have made a nice girlfriend and Lara's special Sunday leftover shouldn't have gone unstolen. But then, it's not the children who decide what is best for them.
So off to secondary school the children go with a daily grunt. They wallow like treacle in bus stages, easily distinguishable in their colour-coded uniforms. The private school children speak poshly, and have neat hair matching expensive sports gear. They cringe and pucker up their faces at everyone including state secondary school students staring at them. They are all navigators of uncharted territory.
On leaving primary school, children are not just one year older, but embarking on a whole phase of life, which least to say is more depressing. Starting secondary school feels like the official opening to the small adolescent's games (knowing in your heart that you were never a good athlete).
Fascinating phenomena appear, like pimples and the discovery, in single sex groups and far from the madding teachers, of the mythical other sex. New friends (which years later you realise were no friends at all) are made and innovative disciplinary methods like after school hours tried and frequently tested. There are new subjects like history and languages. Boring ones like sports, for those like me who never saw the point of running unless you're being chased. Mysterious ones like geography, that ability to trace maps and a capacity to rote learn the names of such fixed and ambigous places as rivers, cities, deserts and oceans. Yes you might find it amazing as you are still too stupid to realise how worthless it is.
Secondary school years are for children like the seven years of worry (they do sometimes repeat). Some fret about whether they'll make the basketball team. Others feel the heavy breath of the nearing O level exams down their neck. "Homework", screams the teacher. "Home", orders mum, "straight after school and no lingering with your friends". "Work", disciplines dad, witholding promises of a new computer, which is only supposed to be used to help with the homework (the naughty boys and girls end up searching suicide websites...). "Help", children shout in the direction of guidance teachers and counsellors (this is done only to distract the teachers and parents and manage to get away with not doing the work, after all, real help is only found on good suicide websites). Secondary school is a time where bullies appear on the school yard horizon, like the Beano Bash Street Kids, promising violent fights and riots, dark revenge in obscure corners of the school ground, cruel and puerile, but let's face it, these are the only real exciting things about school. And while all this is taking place, 'friends' always seem to be running outside having a good time.
So you think that your schooldays are the best days of your life? Think again and you realise how depressing and suicidal they are. But come the end of summer and me and all the other students have to go back unfortunately, though I've passed my primary and secondary years thankfully.
Moral: If you survive and you're still alive years after school is finished don't ever organise or attend a school reunion! It'll completely break you down.
P.S. I have to say something on everyone's comments about this site changing. Yeah, this site has changed but it just has got better. My story of this site reflects the story of the site itself. First time I came in I just had a sight, put in a cruel, stupid joke and left, second time I did the same. Third time I realised that this site wasn't so stupid so I decided to write something a little more tasteful and I started messing around with poetry. I ended up in Mouchie's favourites and kept doing poetry for some time. Then I wrote some stupid shit, tried to forget about the site but came back fairly recently and anyone who reads my stuff knows what I write today. I have come to realise the potential of this site and today it means much more to me. This site helps you unlike the all the other sites that tell you that you should contact their counselors for help. That's all shit. Sometimes this site may look as some 'blind leading the blind', or rather 'suicidal leading suicidal' idea but you know? It works. The reflection in the site's story is here. In the beginning people used to come in, write stupid jokes and probably never come back, then things got better and people used to log on more than once and they were writing more serious stuff. Today anyone who logs in for the first time is hooked because the site is much more mature and entertaining. Occasionally you still find some bullshit. Even Mouchie's tastes have also changed. Leaf through the 'favourite' pages and you'll notice the difference between blasted suicide ideas (which I admit still make me laugh), and better, more mature stories and ideas building gradually through the years. Not that I will ever complain of Lucy's stories. And for all those crying their hearts out on Lucy, now that I know that she's not real I can do without any more Lucy stories because now they will sound stale. I am gonna get criticised for what I said but I suggest another thing, maybe Lucy or Phil or who the fuck it is may log on with a new name and give us other delightful stories. And for those crying on Felicia and Billy, they are with us and they have written only recently. So shut the fuck up (no offence to anyone! That's just my aggressive manner of speaking) and be proud that you make part of this excellent, or should we say classic site, as it is supposed to go down in history, which just gets better every day.
And Leanne if you are not fed up of my speech by now and still reading, thanks for naming me. At least I know that I'm not talking alone. I'm saying this as in my history here (which is getting quite long now) I remember only three times were there was a reference to me or my writing! Thank you, maybe somebody does care after all!
See you disgustingly at school, college, university or where the fuck you're going! Unfortunately I'm gonna be there...
|27 Sep 2003||Felicia||I did see Lucy Cortina on the Tranny website. My GAWD! The boobs look so real. And they are bigger than mine.
Shall I trade for some new ones?
|27 Sep 2003||Obscene||put on your favorite swimsuit fill up the bathtub and play who can hold hold there breath the longest with your pet fishy YOU HAVE TO WIN!!!!|
|26 Sep 2003||Spit on your grave||The reason I want to kill myself is because stupidity or malice of another person that ruined my life.
Well, guess what, they been dead for 150 days. 150 DAYS that I've been alive and they are not. 150 DAYS I saw the sun rise and they didn't. 150 Days when they have been relegated to the fumes of extinction. If I live till tomorrow, that'll be 151..
Get this, they thought they were going to "heaven". I know better..
|26 Sep 2003||victoira||i've thought of blocking off the exhaust in a car and sitting inside it with the windows and all wound up would put me out of this misrable fucking worm hole existence.. i don't care about the ones who plead "no one cares" i know for a fact every individual cunt on this miserable existence is looking out for themselves. and i don't blame theMMMM! i do too, the only reason i haven't killed myself already is i'm too gutless which makes me just as pathetic as all the fucks that come pleading ..i hate this stinking fuck of an existence! I would give anything to see the disgusting politicians that i see on tv every night who fucking get paid a FORTUNE! to make those of us with no money work even harder to get even less!!!!!!!!! Unfortunately I am too fucking dumb and illiterate (coming from a dumb and should be illerate family) to even describe the disgust i feel in my soul when i see these "people of power" make decisions for the general population. And to be 100% honest i am made physically sick seeing these people running our country! Pauline Hanson was the only one with the balls to say what every gutless cunt on this miserable fuckhole of a planet was thinking! and god i hope you are all forgiven for your greedy self centered fuckhole way of thinking!!!!!!!! fuckyourself.
yours in death, VIC!
|25 Sep 2003||Already Dead||The best way to kill yourself in this messed up excuse for an existence is to simply stay alive. With the culmination of rampant killer diseases, terrorism, hate, crime, the toxicity of the environment, our pathetic social system, and the overall apathy we all share, you are bound to find death by simply staying alive.|
|25 Sep 2003||Dr. D. Breast||Dear suicidals. Welcome to the lesson for the day: "There's a Lucy in all of us".
I am quite sure you all know Our Lucy, a fine specimen from the new Psychology texts.
All humans have thoughts, feelings and ideas that they dare not express. All humans have the potential to be evil. All humans are the same.
The mentally ill are no more "freaky" than the average dull-looking person. They are just a lot more magnified if you like, or "enlarged".
The crazy, maybe even disturbing thoughts that lie undiscovered behind the 'sane' persona can sometimes build up to toxic levels, which is when you are declared "insane" and sent into psychiatric care.
Now dear people, do not fear, there is a solution! and the solution is very simple.
Do a Lucy.
Yes, you heard right. Do a Lucy.
Use our new invention called "Lucy Cortina" and get the outrageous, maybe even disturbing thoughts out of your system. Write them down, make a diary. Post them on suicide forums. Post them to the Queen of Austria...
This will lead to a rich and sane life, with all demons expelled. Mental illness will decrease dramatically.
And people like me won't have to choose a career which makes us as crazy as our patients.
|25 Sep 2003||RedAlice|| Let's try a little experiment. Turn and look at someone near you- a loved one, a friend, a co-worker, a stranger -- it doesn't really matter. Now, as you look at this person, consider this: he or she is a completely unique, never-before-in-the-history-of-the-universe-has-there-been-anyone-exactly-like-this-person... person. Reflect on the fact that you are gazing at an impossibly complex and totally original work of art which will never be duplicated. I'm sure you see where I'm going with this. We so easily lose sight of how truly magnificent we are. Which is something to keep in mind if you chose to look at a stranger for this exercise. Even though he's looking back at you with grinning, spittle-covered lips that are a miraculous construct of living tissue -- even though perverse thoughts of what he'd like to do to you are racing through a meat-based computer that no Pentium chip will ever approximate, he is a masterpiece. If he were hanging in a museum, a security guard would most likely tell you...
|25 Sep 2003||Johann||The best way to kill yourself when you're under thirteen is to be white and walk down to a ghetto playing rap music and talking smack|
|24 Sep 2003||Phil||I got a lovely surprise today. After typing my personality Lucy Cortina's name into the search engine, I was led to a tranny porn site. Yes ideedy, the "Lucy's dad is a tranny" story had made it onto a website of tranny pictures and stories.
I should be proud... but I feel sick.
|24 Sep 2003||Leanne2Will||You know, the main thing I hate about England is how hard it is to get hold of a gun... not actually ''get hold'' of it, but to purchase one. WILL, my lil pea in a pod, you've been away from this world for quite a while but your still surviving and you came back, do you take pride in that? For me it's a shame I'm still here.. it saddens me but it saddens me to give in. But to give in is to be free. The way I look at this whole thing, is I imagine Depression and Suicide is actually in the form of a human being and I'm constantly at battle with em'. If I let em' win, I lose, but does that mean that losing is defeat if I give in and take my life? Or if I keep fighting and still continue my exisitence being miserable, I'm losing and I'm still being defeated? I guess I'm screwed either way even if I do give in to the pain. This place is not like it used to be. I mean, it still has its attraction but where have the main contenders gone? i.e Just a Girl, Miss Lucy (I don't think I need to type her second name), Felicia, Naomi, Molly? These names will go down in history, I'm gonna make sure of it. C'mon ladies, we need you. For those of you who've been here since the dawn of time will know who I'm talking about. It's wonderful to see we have the other games' contenders here though,i.e Gay punk, WILL, Chris, oh and others who I can't recall right at this moment due to sleep deprivation. Mouchette, bring these girls back, even you must have noticed the 'zest' has left from here since their departures... we're all missin' them. That's all I ask of, today.' 'Until next time, take of yourselves, and each other!'' Cheerio peeps.|
|24 Sep 2003||Steve||I did a bit of reading and came to the unfortunate conclusion that trying to kill myself with painkillers (i.e. ibuprofen, acetamenophen) will not work well, because it tends to cause liver damage and you don't actually die until a few days after the overdose, and even if you do eventually die, you'd have to go through vomitting, dizziness, stomach pain, blurred vision and other side effects.
So now I'm wondering what method I should use. I could still use pain killers and alcohol to possibly reduce the pain of whatever method I use. I'd use carbon monoxide, but my car doesn't even fit in my garage because it's full of junk, and my parents would catch me anyway. I wouldn't know how to hang myself properly and I probably don't have a sturdy rope lying around anywhere. I could overdose on painkillers and then slit my wrists or something..... I guess I could do that, I'm just afraid it wouldn't work or I wouldn't slit my wrists properly or something. Any serious suggestions?
|24 Sep 2003||Carly||If you are desperate enough to actually carry the task out, make sure it's a smash hit and that it'll rate high on the shock factor. Something bloody. Very bloody. Perhaps inserting an IV tube up a major vein in your arm and some how hooking it up to an aquarium pump. As the pump does its job, you have the leisure of a few minutes before you black out to write a heart warming message in blood to your family and friends. When I figure it out how to hook the thing up, i'll post it. Oh, by the way, if you are feeling particularly nasty, let the blood drain away onto your parents' nice clean carpet. This should be a perfect way to kill yourself if you have fish.|
|23 Sep 2003||the gay||sorry phil. awww man i still can't accept that lucy's dead, phil. i'm gonna go start a religion where people worship the ms. cortina, and people slit themselves, and the men get naked.. uggh there's this fat kid (no offence to anyone) who's just harrassing me and threatening me just because i was gay, and since he's black i'm supposed to be afraid of him (no offence to black people either. fuck, am i going on in a prejudiced rampage?).
he's all just like, "have you ever had a black guy fuck up your face," and i'm like, "leave me alone you asshole, stop eating chicken wings so you won't get fat," what an idiot.
|23 Sep 2003||thom||play tug of war with the other end of the rope in a wood chipper.|
|23 Sep 2003||Chris||People just love intruding on each other's lives. They want to know what happened to the person living next door, they want to know that people have bigger problems than theirs so that they can feel better and they want to have others to gossip on. They also want to know that they aren't the only suicidal people. So you can imagine that my part of my secret diary (which I published two posts ago on 10th September 2003), 'which I write like a man with a hidden vice', was found interesting by lots of people. So I decided to publish another bit. I believe that this part happened soon after the pokies incident...
When I went out of the casino I found the railway station. Outside the railway station, I turned left and walked along the side of the dark road. Judging by the rural surroundings and the poppet heads of coal mines, I had reached far beyond the outskirts of the city but, always lacking a sense of direction, could not tell whether I was walking towards or away from it. What the hell? I didn't know where I was going; didn't care where I had come from. (Life is shit anywhere after all).
I began to signal passing vehicles, remembering what my friend Trevor used to say about big new cars never giving you a lift, only old cars or trucks. They all left me standing, old, new, big, small, trucks and cars alike, until self-disgust made its final statement: having utterly decided to kill myself beyond any possibility of changing my mind, I had stranded myself in a strange mining village without tablets or any other means of consummating the deed. The wind suction of a passing truck almost pulled me off my feet. I had always had a phobia about falling: looking down from a high balcony, an almost irresistible urge to jump or fall would grip me; the same urge to jump or fall under a moving train always led me to step well back when one entered a platform, even at the risk of missing a seat. Simple really; all I had to do was fall or jump under a passing vehicle; stand close so the urge would grip me. Or better still step right to the middle of the road and stand hypnotised by the headlamps like a kangaroo on a bush track.
A truck- judging by the height of and space between the bright lights- the lights growing larger, drawing me into their path. Pain? No, the falling body and the depressed soul obliterated on impact. 'Unknown man killed by truck'. I imagined the headline! An accident beyond all danger of being labelled suicide. But that kind of death could add no meaning to my life. The body still twirling slowly down from the death throes, head to one side, the mouth agape like a strangled bird, blood pouring from the nose and ears, turning the white shirt the colour of crashed raspberries: that is the kind of death. But I could never hang myself; and lynchings happened only in my dreams.
The screeching brakes; the lurching, plunging truck and I am lying by the roadside breathless but unhurt, scrambling to my feet, picking up the fallen brief-case, the truck coming back. "Could you give me a lift, mate?" I asked, affecting an air of unconcern. "A lift?" he shouted. "Listen, you just went close to getting a lift to eternity. You stepped... I overlapped him: "I tried to signal and got dazzled by the lights". He peered at me in an accusing tone and sked: "Where are you going?" I asked back: "Where are you going?". He named a place which I cannot remember the name of but he named a highway so I said: "The highway? That will do for me, if it wouldn't be too much trouble". He still seemed unconvinced but shrugged and said: "No trouble".
I scrambled into the truck beside him, having struggled to open the high door. In the reflected light of the cabin, he appeared to be a man with some Maori or perhaps Thursday Island blood: an ambivalent man, with a flat secretive face and sly ironic eyes. He wore dungarees, a singlet, a tattered wollen jacket and a raffishly angled cap.
"What, you running away from your mother or something?" he asked, looking in the rear vision mirror outside his door as we drove off. "Nothing like that. Had too much beer at a club and got on the wrong train." I managed a casual smile. "Where will you come out on the highway?". He again mentioned someplace and I told him: "Know it, that's where I'm going."
This coincidence seemed to quiet his suspicions but I wanted to divert the conversation away from my nocturnal journey. I picked up a book which had lain on the dash board, I could make out the title in the dim light: 'Live and Let Die'. "Do a bit of reading I see". "Not much: spend most of my time at the wheel or asleep: generally carry a book to read at roadside cafes." He braked suddenly as the driver in front signalled a right turn at a road junction but changed her mind and went straight on. "Women drivers!" he exclaimed and swung the huge semi-trailer right as if it were a sports car. The book still lay in my hands: 'Live and Let Die'.
It reminded me of a book I had borrowed about suicide, death and afterlife which had entered my house by stealth, like a lecher smuggled into a nunnery by a novice. The question was where to hide it because I didn't want my mother to find it and learn about my intentions. It was a paperback printed on cheap paper and I carried it by day forced into my hip-pocket, and slept with it under my pillow at night. At first I didn't even dare to read a page for fear of being discovered, like a child with a forbidden comic.
Then, one day in the secrecy of the toilet, I took it out with trembling hands. On the back cover was a photo of the author, with a high forhead, a near beard and a jovial expression. His twinkling eyes seemed to seek recognition for his wit and knowledge. They showed that for him the subject wasn't depressing but a relief. Someone tried to open the toilet door. I slammed my feet against it and said sorry. As I shot the bolt, the book dropped to the floor. The title printed in red letters seemed to glow like a neon light. Like a criminal destroying evidence in fear that the police will arrive, I tore the cover off and, later ripping it into small pieces, threw it into the toilet bowl and pulled the chain. Some pieces did not flush. I scooped up the soggy craps from the water and wrapped them in a handcherkief. Then, after a long wait, the plunge of the cistern sounded like a surging waterfall as it sucked the incriminating pieces down. But bit by bit, in the secrecy of the toilet I read it all and got more obsessed by suicide.
Back to the truck. The truck coasted on a straight stretch of road and the driver glanced sidelong at me. "I always pick up a hitch-hiker; know why?" he asked. "For the company?" "No, because I'm curious about strangers". He turned his head slyly, at the same time inquisitive and sceptical. "Take yourself: I'm driving along in the rain in the middle of nowhere when into my light beam jumps a well dressed bloke with an umbrella and brief-case who says he has got on the wrong train." "Truth is stranger than fiction." "Yeah, and he just happens to be going where I'm going." I began to see the truck driver as a challenge to my ability to hide my real thoughts and identity behind my conversation. I felt a curious elation like an actor ready to move in a difficult role. "That's how it is with life" I began. "If I were to put in a novel some things that have happened to me- people would think I was a nut."
He was distracted, however, by the demands of the road, which now began to wind through a mountainous rain forest, and he leaned over the wheel with concentraed skill. The lights picked up now high tension wires to the left; now the sheer cliff to the right; now a bridge beneath which a cascading stream tumbled over sandstone. The forest was tropically lush, a dark tangle of ferns and vines, palms and gum trees, seen through the swishing rain, like a jungle where wild animals might lurk and morbid fungus flourish.
My thoughts moved in spirals as if they were a memory circling, waiting to land. Was there a beginning- if God made the world, who made God?- could something infinite exist outside the finite material world? This old conundrum had been poised above my brain-box like a guillotine ever since I started embracing the truth in the books of science, art and mathematics. Later, I had formed the habit of posing this question in school classes and private conversation and always answering it in the negative. More recently, I had left it suspended in the air like a flying saucer, controversial and obtuse. And on thinking about the beginning I also thought about the end, and I wished that the truck would crash into a dark spot killing both me and the driver, to be found years later, forgotten by everyone. But the end naver came... and so I keep on living this fucked up, sorrowful life!
P.S. To anyone who called me a samaritan, first read all my posts. You might change your opinion! And those few, rare days when I try to be positive and help both me and you get on, don't spoil them.
See ya all in hell!