It's Kind of a Funny Story

I look at myself in the bathroom light. Yes, I’m okay. I’m okay because I have a plan and a solution: I’m going to kill myself.

I’m going to do it tonight. This is such a farce, this whole thing. I thought I was better and I’m not better. I tried to get stable and I can’t get stable. I tried to turn the corner and there aren’t any corners; I can’t eat; I can’t sleep; I’m just wasting resources.

It’s going to be tough on my parents. So tough. And my little sister. Such a beautiful, smart girl. Not a dud like me, that’s for sure. It’ll be hard to leave her. Not to mention it might mess her up. Plus my parents will think they’re such failures. They’ll blame themselves. It’ll be the most important event in their lives, the thing that gets whispered by other parents at parties when their backs are turned:

Did you hear about their son?

Teen suicide.

They’ll never get over it.

I don’t know how anyone could.

They must not’ve known the warning signs.

But you know what, it’s time for me to stop putting other people’s emotions ahead of my own. It’s time for me to be true to myself, like the pop stars say. And my true self wants to blast off this rock.

I’ll do it tonight. Late tonight. In the morning, specifically. I’ll get up and bike to the Brooklyn Bridge and throw myself off it.

Before I go, though, I’ll sleep in Mom’s bed for one final night. She lets me sleep there when I’m feeling bad, even though I’m too old—Dad’ll sleep in the living room. There’s plenty of space by her, and it’s not like we touch or anything; she’s just available to bring me warm milk and cereal. Tonight is something I owe her; her only son spending time with her before he goes. I’d be heartless not to. I’ll hug my dad too, and my sister. But I’m not leaving any notes. What kind of crap is that?

“I’m okay,” I say, unlocking the bathroom door and stepping out. My parents corner me in a hug that mimics the one at Aaron’s blowout party, when we were confirming that our futures were bright.

“We love you, Craig,” Mom says.

“This is true,” Dad says.

“Uh,” I say.

With Dr. Minerva I talk about my Tentacles and Anchors. Here’s something for you, Doctor: my parents are now part of the Tentacles, and my friends too. My Tentacles have Tentacles, and I’m never going to cut them off. But my Anchor, that’s easy: it’s killing myself. That’s what gets me through the day. Knowing that I could do it. That I’m strong enough to do it and I can get it done.

“Can I sleep in your bed tonight?” I ask Mom.

“Sure, honey, of course.”

Dad nods at me.

“I’m ready for bed, then.” I go into my room and pull out clothes to sleep in, stash another pile to die in. I’ll get them when I leave in the morning. Mom announces that she’s making some warm milk and it’ll help me sleep. I go to my sister’s room. She’s up, sketching a kitchen at her desk.

“I love ya, little girl,” I tell her.

“Are you okay?” she responds.

“Yeah.”

“You threw up.”

“You heard?”

“It was like eccccccchhhh reeccccccch blacccchhh, of course I heard.”

“I turned the water on!”

“I have good ears.” She points to her ears.

“You do good throw-up impressions, too,” I say.

“Yeah.” She turns back to her sketch. “Maybe when I grow up I could be like a stand-up comedian, and just get onstage and make those noises.”

“No,” I say, “what you could do, or what I could do, since I’m so good at it, is get up onstage and actually throw up, and people would pay to watch, like I was a professional vomit-er.”

“Craig, that is so gross.”

But I don’t think it’s gross. I think it’s kind of a good idea. How does performance art get started, after all?

Don’t let that distract you, soldier.

Right, I won’t.

You’ve made your decision and you’re sticking to it, is that correct?

Yes, sir.

The point of you being in this room is to say good-bye to your sister, is that not right?

Absolutely, sir.

I’m sorry to see it come to this, soldier. I thought you had promise. But you gotta do what you gotta do, and sometimes you gotta commit hara-kiri, ya know?

Yes, sir.

I hug Sarah. “You’re very sweet and smart, and you have great ideas. Stick with them.”

“Of course.” She looks at me. “What’s wrong with you?”

“I’m okay.”

“You’re bad. Don’t try and fool me.”

“I’ll be all right tomorrow.”

“Okay. You like my kitchen?”

She holds it up. It’s practically a blueprint, with the swinging quarter-circles for doors and the sink and refrigerator outlined in crisp, bird’s-eye detail. It looks like something someone would pay for.