It�s not the question to be or not to be. I�m way past that. The current dilemma was how to commit.

The Gun: I bought mine from Johnny Carpel after 5th period and now it�s pressed against my forehead aiming directly towards my Cerebral Cortex. I could just feel my Pons Vorolii whimpering. Counter-clockwise, I moved the pistol around my head, slow. I could just hear my Medulla Oblongata pleading for sympathy. My Central Nervous System has never been this scared.

The stench from my feces still lingered around the room, although I flushed it to eternity several minutes ago. I hear when you die your body rids itself of access fluids and solids. I wouldn�t be caught dead lying in my own piss and shit.

How embarrassing.

I set the gun down on the countertop and drew my next line of attack from my left pocket.

Razor-blades: I recently lifted these from a nearby convenient store. I rarely stole much, but the way I see it, you can�t put a price on your own death. Well, that�s unless, of course, you have life insurance. I took the blades from out of the box and disposed of the cardboard sleeves that wrapped each one into the trash can next to the toilet. I held one of the blades in my hand and dressed it along my left wrist and forearm. My veins curled up into fetal position like children being spanked. I felt my blood vessels boiling. I set the blade down beside the others, beside the gun.

My Mother: I heard her in the kitchen occasionally banging pots and pans. She must be making dinner. She hasn�t got the slightest. As far as she knows, I�m still her special little angel.

Pssh.

As if.

The truth is I could never love my mother because of the fact she didn�t have my abortion.

Throughout my life, I always stayed away from drugs, but I figure there�s a time to do everything, and there is no time like the present, seeing how me being dead in 10 minutes. I opened the medicine cabinet, searching. Along with your basic household drugs (i.e. Advil, Tylenol, Cough Syrup), the cabinet was filled with several barbiturates including chloral hydrate, scopolamine, and methaqualone, along with their opposites which included amphetamines, methamphetamines, similar to speed but less potent. And legal. What I had here was a variety pack of medicinal euphoria.

My Father: didn�t hear much from him. And I�m not just talking about now; I�m talking about my entire life.

I took a few pills of each drug and set them beside the blades, beside the gun.

What I was building was a small army of self obliteration.

I searched the bathroom for more ammunition, draft style. Uncle Sam wants you. I found some Drain-O from under the sink and added it to the infantry.

Now I didn�t want to have one of those run of the mill type suicides.

Gun to the head.

Over.

Slit of the wrist.

Over.

It�s all been done before. Not too many people appreciate the art of suicide. It has become commercialized next to music and movies.

Into my eyes, I stared at my reflection in the mirror.

�My name is Daniel Emboss and in 5 minutes I am going to be dead.�

And with that, I flew my plane over the land of the enemy.

Shards of glass became lodged in my forehead upon slamming my head into the glass of the mirror. Over and over, I rammed my head against it, each blow harder than the one before. And with each strike I heard a number of cracking sounds; from the mirror or my skull, I couldn�t tell the difference.

I wanted my head to split in two and come falling down like the US Trade Center. I wanted my skull to ellipse. I was slamming my head into the world I never belonged.

By this time, my reflection was looking less like my face than a piece by Pablo Picasso. No way was I having an open casket ceremony.

I felt blood sweat down my head into my eyes. I became colorblind in shades of red. While crying blood, your vision becomes less than 20/20, so when I reached for the pills I couldn�t tell one from another, but at this point I don�t think it matter much.

I heard my mother from the kitchen.

�Is everything alright in there dear?!�

I didn�t answer.

I would like to have yelled back, I�m having the greatest moment of my life right now.

And, I am one step closer towards salvation.

But I didn�t.

Instead, I shoveled handfuls of pills in my mouth and washed them down with the Drain-O. The sour taste made my eyes water more blood. I frisked the counter for more pills and stumbled upon one of the razors blades. I placed one on my tongue and chewed it around vigorously. Deep cuts were slashed into my tongue and gums. My mouth became flooded with blood. I swallowed hard. I could feel the blade cut into my throat as it struggled to go down, stopping for several seconds and then continuing on its course. They say a paper cut is the worst kind of pain. Well, I got a few words for them.

I swallowed another blade.

And then another.

Down the hatchet.

My throat became sliced and raw. More and more blood coated my throat after each one, and for a moment I realized that I haven�t had this much fun since, well, ever. I took another shot of Drain-O. The cuts in my mouth sizzled when filled with the liquid, which was more or less like acid at this point, and it felt like a thousand sting crazy bees crawled into my mouth. I gripped the last of the four razor blades hard in my hand and dug a deep trench into my left arm. I felt metal against bone and heard nails against chalkboard.

Knock, knock, knock.

My mother was right outside the door.

�Honey, are you Okay in there? I heard some noise.�

Go away.

��and why is the water running, dear?�

Oh, you mean the blood pouring out my forearm onto the floor.

�Oo oothhinn�

I must have cut my mouth worse than I thought because when I went to respond all that followed was gibberish and heaps of blood spat out simultaneously. My tongue was left hanging half way out my mouth and felt like a loose tooth breaking free from its gums.

�What was that dear?�

�leavva eveema eeths looffds!�

I was becoming somewhat light headed at this point due the excessive amount of blood flowing from just about everywhere. The pills eased the pain for now, but I knew I didn�t have much time until I was born again.

�Something�s wrong Danny, I know it. Please open this door.�

Shit.

I had only one round left. I grabbed the gun, which seemed to weigh a thousand pounds now, from the countertop.

�Oh my God Danny, is this blood?!!�

Slowly, I looked down. The floor had been flooded with blood and streamed under the door into the hall.

�Daniel, open this door right now!�

I heard the door handle shake as I attempted to switch the safety to off on the gun. I heard her walking away and I knew exactly where she was headed. I struggled with the switch but with this much blood loss it�s hard to do just about anything.

I heard keys nearing the door.

The knob finally clicked over to off but I used so much force that the gun fell from my hands into the Red Sea. The splash threw blood against the walls.

Knock, knock, knock.

�I�m coming in there!�

I kneeled down to pick up the gun, which was now coated in my DNA. I struggled to stand back up and upon the attempt I fell to the floor. For an instant, I saw white but heard red.

The keys jingled in the lock.

Still floating in blood, I pressed the gun against the side of my mouth, aiming directly at my�well, you get the picture.

My vision became less than stable again and I saw the doorknob turning and the door opening.

My mother: She saw it all.

The cracks in my forehead that were now pouring out blood. The smashed mirror and my caved in skull. The open bottle of Drain-O next to the prescription drugs. The razor blade still lodged in the hole of my forearm.

The blood literally everywhere.

I still lay on the ground and the gun still pressed against my cheek. Mother looked white and didn�t say a word. I stared up at her. I imagine this is what I saw at birth.

She gazed down at me with a look of understanding.

For the first time in my life, I made eye contact with my mother. A tear dropped from her eyes and disappeared in my pool of blood.

I squeezed the trigger hard and entered oblivion.