Mortal Danger

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At least, I had been planning it for months. First I read up on the best ways to do it, then I learned the warning signs and made sure not to reveal any of them. People who wanted to be saved gave away their possessions and said their good-byes. I’d passed so far beyond that point; I just wanted it all to stop.

There was no light at the end of this tunnel.

So two days after the school year ended, I left my house for what I intended to be the last time. I wrote no note of explanation. In my opinion, it never offered closure and it only made the survivors feel guilty. Better to let my parents think I suffered from some undiagnosed mental illness than to have them carry the knowledge that maybe they could’ve saved me; that burden could drive my parents to the ledge behind me, and I didn’t want that. I only wanted an ending.

Earlier I had walked toward the BU T station I used for other errands, like shopping and school. There was plenty of time for me to change my mind, but I’d done all the research, and it was meticulous. I’d considered all sorts of methods, but in the end, I preferred water because it would be tidy and quick. I hated the idea of leaving a mess at home for my parents to clean up. This early—or late, depending on your perspective—the city was relatively quiet. Just as well. I’d gotten off at North Station and trudged the last mile or so.

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