All The Children Are Insane

I've been trying to write this God-damned letter for days now. I need this to really kick their asses, wake them up, stun and shock them. No, this isn't for the family. I wouldn't care what they would have to say anyway. Man, I want the world hearing about this. I mean, I know they will, that's why what I have to say must be great. Where can I even start, though? Yeah, the readers always remember what you end with, but a beginning is what I'm after. The meat is all there, all up in my head. It's a brick, man, thick and hard and weighing me down. It's not as if I have a deadline per se, but I'd like to finish this as soon as possible. I've been locked in this attic for three days now; the aroma is most pungent.

What am I going to say: the devil made me do it? My extreme loneliness and internal pain has warped my mind? Isn't that what they would all like to think? Wouldn't they like to think that they could have changed something in some way to prevent this unavoidable fate? Then again, if I go and blame everything else, they can just blame all of this on a dysfunctional upbringing. No one wants to take the time and think of the real reasons why this occurred. Maybe it's not just one instance, event, person, or lifestyle that corrupted my soul. Maybe it's not anything at all. People can't just take this as it is, they have to have their little sound bite to tell their friends. They want to condense the entire situation into a one sentence theme. He was Crazy. He was a Psycho. He had deep emotional problems. Well, obviously.

The key is to make them believe what I want them to believe. Do I want them to think that I was a good person at heart? I don't like people in general, but do I want them to know that? Because, I could lie my ass off and no one would be the wiser. I really do hate people, though. And, why shouldn't I? They never gave me a chance, so why should I care what happens to them? Did anyone ever take the time to ask how I was doing? I don't mean that in the shallow sense; how are you doing? fine. No one asked how I really felt. No one wanted to get to know me. And you know what, that's fine, because I don't really want to get to know people anyway. I don't need to deal with whiny little poseurs or sex-starved teenagers anyway. Yeah, I've got problems too, but you don't see me wasting everyone's time. I just keep living my life; everyday stewing in hate when people abruptly leave the lunchroom table I choose, when I receive prank phone calls from people who shouldn't have my number, when guys whistle at me and their girlfriends laugh, when some girl I could never have comes up to me on a dare and says "You know what your problem is ..." or "Gee, you're attractive."

Example: Walking home from my educationally worthless high school last week, with my hair covering my eyes, I was pleased that I went a whole day without being bothered. People didn't approach me, didn't throw spit wads or eraser pieces at my head, teachers didn't ask me for homework I never bothered to finish. With the clouds pouring water on my coat-less body, I figured that was the price to pay for reprieve. Then, someone riding in the passenger seat of a Ford pickup truck threw a water balloon from the moving vehicle. It hit me square on my left ear; they laughed at how they got me wet. Even though my ear was ringing, I could still hear them yelling "faggot" and "douche bag" at me. Throughout the past decade or so, the names have changed (queer, freak, loser, shitface, retard); the people have not. Just when you think that people may have matured, started showing compassion, or have started leaving you alone, you get hit on the side of the head with a water balloon during a torrential rainstorm. I wonder what they would do if I started wearing a trench coat, or makeup, or a shaved head. I wonder what they would do if I took the guns out of the box in the attic and brought them to school. This always makes me smile.


I think I have the perfect song. The song I shall close my life out with. There was a long list of my favorite songs I had to choose from including: "Black" by Pearl Jam, "1983" by The Jimi Hendrix Experience, "Eulogy" by Tool, "Institutionalized" by Suicidal Tendencies, and "The End" by the Doors. All excellent songs, not necessarily dealing with death or suicide in particular, but musically and stylistically songs I would be proud to have rattling around in my head for all eternity. If I wanted to go for the devoid-of-thought-or-creativity approach, I could just make a video letter of myself and have "Time of Your Life" by Green Day playing in the background. I chose one song, though, that far exceeds the others, in my opinion. "Burn" by Nine Inch Nails. For those who haven't heard, it comes from the Natural Born Killers soundtrack and starts out: "This world rejects me / This world threw me away / This world never gave me a chance / This world's gonna have to pay." The song, it builds and builds with frustration, anger and intensity until the singer screams out "I'm gonna burn this whole world down," followed by some of the loudest instrumentals I have ever heard, full on synthesizers, guitars, and drums kicking in your face. I figure at that point of climax, the most intense energy flowing within me, I will have enough juice to pull the plug on this life.

I even think I have the perfect plan to make my exit as dramatic as possible. I live in a rather large, tri-level house with my parents, my two older sisters. In this house, we have an extensive attic, which comprises that third level. Our house is on the corner of two streets; the front faces a small, residential street, and the left side faces a busy, two-lane street. The attic window facing this busy street is about five feet long, though only three feet high. We used to keep all of our old clothes, toys and souvenirs in these secret wall compartments. These things are huge. When I emptied them, I couldn't believe how much I could fit in there; it's practically big enough to house a family of immigrants. Now, I have a nice runway constructed with all of the junk on the sides which leads to the window.

If I get a good enough running start, I think I could clear the fence below and land right in the middle of the street. To perfect the plan, I have set up my deluxe stereo system, with the four foot high speakers, next to the window. With the volume fully extended, I would start my run at that line before the climax, hit the window just as the instrumental part kicks in, go partially deaf from the explosion of sound and shattering glass, then plummet to a most peaceful death.

You can see that this has been planned out to the fullest extent. It's so nice to have a goal for once; something to look forward to. That is, it would be something to look forward to if I could think of how to write this final letter to sever all ties. I'm not here to make it all sappy. I don't want to make them remember the "good times," because, frankly, I cannot remember the good times. When I was young? When I was a kid? When I had no real worries or cares in the world? Please. This sort of behavior starts in childhood. I never went around thinking about suicide at age six. But, I knew when I was being picked on; I knew that life wasn't always fun. When you live life as an outcast, you tend to have a downtrodden outlook on life. Live life as the ugly kid, as the nerd, as the socially inept; then talk to me when you have "problems." Maybe we can cry with each other while greasing up our hands with double-bacon cheeseburgers.

I'm not just someone who has grown up without friends. I've been living without the potential for friends. I knew from an early age that life wasn't always peachy. But, they tell you to deal. To deal and get along and hopefully you survive. There's only so much crap a guy can take before he has to die, though. Like I said, I'm not going to be blaming anyone for my choices. I know it may feel like I'm some depressed youth lashing out at his parents in the only way possible, but that isn't the case. That's a point I will have to get across in my letter. But, I refuse to sugarcoat anything. Everyone who reads it will know the pain I feel, the pain I want them all to feel for once in their lives. If I have to do something drastic, then so be it.

Look, don't think for a moment that I haven't considered the backlash my name will suffer. Oh, he's so selfish. He didn't even consider how this would affect his family. I know my name will be dragged through the mud by those who could never understand, who have grown up forced not to understand. The way I see it, I have no choice in the matter. First, I have gone too far to turn back now. Above that, I have no prospects for a "normal" life. I'll tell you my alternative and you tell me if I'm being "selfish" or "rash" or overly sensitive. I've never been on a date. No girl would ever consider going out with me. I've always considered myself as ugly as the day is pointless. With my extreme obesity, I face the eternal struggle to maintain sub-sweating body temperature. There's no way this will ever change for me. I can't live my life alone forever.

I might graduate high school next summer. Then, my possibilities are endless, right? Not exactly. My parents do not have enough money to pay for college, but that's okay because I don't have the grades or the desire to go anyhow. I can, instead, resume working at the mall, making minimum wage caring for the plants they place beside the benches. This job entails watering, pruning, and picking up candy wrappers, pop bottle caps, and Band-Aids from the soil. If I'm good at what I do, then in about twenty years, I can move up to wiping up vomit in the food court. This career would afford me with the opportunity to live at home until I am in my thirties. Given the fact that I cannot stand to even look at my family, let alone live with them for the next decade and a half, I feel I have no other option.

Why do I hate my family? It's a family of nothing. Nothing happens. Nothing changes. Nobody talks ... but that just may be in my case. The rest of them could get together, early in the morning, and have little discourses about city council competency or the struggles of the stock market or the cultural implications of Ernest P. Worrell. For some reason, I seriously doubt that. How would I know, though, because I spend all available hours alone in my room. Then, when I show my face, it's all mumbled greetings, averted eyes, and downcast heads. The only words I ever heard from my father were "When are you going to get a job?" and "Why don't you cut that hair?" My mother was a little less direct, sighing "What is wrong with you?" My sisters didn't make things much easier with their parental ass-kissing and constant helpfulness around the house. This was all just a show in order to get free room and board, since they're in their mid twenties and haven't moved out. Living in this house, with those people has taken all the life and energy out of me. My parents were the first to realize that. They weren't the last. People may think me selfish, but I say it is their own fault. They brought all of this upon themselves.

It doesn't matter, though. All of this is in the past ... forever. Those who survive me will know what I have went through. They will know how I have lived, why I made my decision, and why I have acted in this way. Yet, here I sit, pen in hand, with a blank page. A blank page and the stench is getting stronger. The stench is getting stronger and outsiders will begin to worry soon. Soon, they will want to know where I am. Where I am and why they cannot find the rest of my family.


When I think about it, I wonder why I didn't do this before. Why have I waited this long? The calm, the serenity of the past four days has led me to believe that this decision is in my best interests. They told me - all of those people around me - that I had something to worry about if I committed suicide. They said I'd burn. They said I'd face an eternity of pain far worse than I could imagine in life. They told me Heaven's really the place to be, ya dig? Not that I had some big pow-wow with the fam on the subject. These are just ideas I picked up while living with God-fearing Christians all my life. They lay that religion on me - like I really give a damn. I was reduced to two options of living while growing up: conform or rebel. Most of my life was spent in the former. Always believing what was said by my elders because I thought they could not be wrong. My options changed over the last couple of years. Instead of stagnating in ignorance, I decided to grow a brain. I think for myself; I believe what I want to believe.

Decisions like these do not come easily. I had to consider choosing life. Life has been pain, misery, and unbearable loneliness. I haven't had a ready access of drugs, people to talk to, respect or love from my family, or any other means to escape the pain of reality. I can't imagine a well-adjusted, or even a halfway pleasant life with myself still living. People have asked me where I will be in ten years. What will I be doing; where will I be working? Who will I be with? I could never answer those questions. I could never visualize myself beyond high school. I could imagine ceasing to live, I'll give you that. I could relate death to you. It's dark. It's desolate. It's in your face, but you can't see it. The nothing. The blue. The forbidden. Deeper and deeper, away you fall. A piercing scream is all that you can hear. An instant: pain, then release. It's all strings, muffled breath, and a warm spot in the pool. And the scratching, the clawing for your soul. Resistance leads to submission. A lifeless corpse bouncing off of boiling concrete, into a muddy ditch.


Hear this, man. I've heard enough. Why would Anyone care about what happens to some nobody? Are you Really going to change the world with your words; are you That naive?

No, man, but listen. I've got some things to say and I think people will be interested.

Why? Who are you?

I'm the guy who's alone in an attic full of death.

No, I'll tell you who you are. You're a guy who has Nothing to say. And yet, here you remain. Stop wasting our time and get this over with. You know you don't want to write a life story, because nobody cares about your shitty little life. You seem to be a pro-suicide kind of cat, so sending a warning against suicide for others wouldn't be in order. And why, why do you want the world knowing how you feel? Do you want their sympathy? You'll be fucking dead, a splattered body on the concrete; who cares what they think? Would your life have had any more meaning if you produced this beautiful work of art? People write these things on a daily basis. You're not the first. You're not the last. You're not important, nobody is. You're not special. You will have no impact. No one but the police will read it anyway. So, just end this shit right now so we can get out of here.


In the end, the note doesn't even seem worth writing.


the killer awoke before dawn ...

i'm not sorry      I'M NOT FUCKING SORRY      you hated me and i hated you      you want to know why i did this      you want to know why i stacked the bodies in the attic      you want to know why i waited four days to write this        i refuse       i refuse to tell you anything        take that away with you       put that in your papers       you'll put whatever you want anyway         just say i said no comment         just say i was crazy, i was an atheist, that i loved the taste of cold-blooded murder          tell the world i was an outcast             aren't we all            don't we all stick out in some way         don't we all make a mark somewhere         some people like it          they like change        they want unique people         here's my mark         it's my body on the ground, dead    DEAD         and i'm gone and you're still here         but, it's nothing    it's shit      we mean nothing           no one's important             _______ and then you die        fill in the blank, it all spells shit             i'm not sorry          i've made no difference    you'll all die someday            i'm just sorry i couldn't have done more              i'm just sorry i couldn't have killed more