Everybody has a carcass in the closet, while for some, this is just a phrase, a clever little saying for fortune cookies, for me, it hits to hard at home. Or more specifically, the heart that is now pumping blood frantically out of the wounds I’ve inflicted upon myself. No, I don’t have a body in my closet, waiting to be found by my parents as they walk around my room in somber motions, occasionally blotting their eyes. My corpse lays in the ground, in all likely hood, under the cliché six feet of dirt, but that’s not where I left him. No, the torturer sent from the afterlife was left on the side of the road, next to a broken mailbox, bleeding to death.

Every eulogy I’ve read in the newspaper, and lately I’ve been reading my fare share, they make the person, who is somehow completely, and inaccurately portrayed in those few sentences, into a saint, especially with suicides. Most of them don’t say the person took his or her life, most suicide eulogies say something along the lines of ‘taken before their time’. Please don’t do this to me. Don’t say cliché lies about me because the only people who read these, aside from depressed individuals such as myself, will be my friends and family. They’ll see through the lies when you use lines like ‘loving son and brother’, and ‘a joy to be around’, my aunts, uncles, and grandparents all know that my sister and me despise each other. And my friends know that I’m anti-social, especially in the recent months. And for those of you who I pushed away, sorry to leave you flabbergasted, but now you will know why, hopefully.

When I first saw the end of my sanity, it was between the blissful moments of darkness and the chaotic scene of reality I was presented with. This demonic scene presented it’s self to me while I blinked rapidly as my car’s power steering went out, causing my car to carve a twisted and unnatural path down the rain covered road, not unlike the way my razor carved out a new chasm upon the flesh of my wrists. You see, to anyone who knew me, I blink a lot when I’m nervous, and on that rain-raped day, I was on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

They say that while you are dieing, or are about to die, random thoughts flash through your head. Survivors of plane crashes always talk about how the most prominent thoughts they had involved everyday menial tasks, such as if they died, who would feed that cat? Or, even more frightening, is their house a mess. I wonder if it’s true.

When I hit him, I didn’t know what to do, so instead of being the good citizen that everyone is supposed to be, I drove on. By that time I was blinking so much I could barely drive the car, which I had barely managed to get back under my now shaking control. Though, by this time, I had to muscle the car into doing the simplest of things. When my death carriage had reached home, I got out and looked at the damage to my car, luckily it wasn’t bad; I told my parents I hit a deer. But seeing as they’re probably the first to read this, you knew that didn’t you? I never did get that car repaired; instead I sported the dented fender like my own scarlet letter.

You may have noticed how much I blink these days; there’s a good reason. Every time I look in the mirror I see his face. His skin was white, not white like horror movies depict vampires, but the subtle white of a boy who has been through a long winter filled with rainy days that demand your presence inside. The hair that was on his head before our fates collided in multiple ways was short and blonde, when I departed, what was left of it was a ghastly mixture of brown, maroon, and that same blonde. He was tall and lanky, the type of person you see on the wooden floors of a basketball court as opposed to the grassy field where football is played. The thing that stuck out most about him was the expression of melancholy on his face before I hit him, not surprise like one would normally think is the expression of someone who is suddenly presented with a ton of steal barreling down on them.

I’m sorry if this seems rushed to you, it was more of an afterthought than anything. I read somewhere that most suicides don’t leave notes, and to me the act of doing this may end up jinxing this attempt to end my life. That would be the last thing I’d need. If I were to be saved, I’d end up going insane. Every time I drive, any hapless pedestrian’s appearance flickers into that of the boy that I hit, like a candle flame that was just blown on so that it changed from a normal oxygen-consuming spark, into a writhing, angry ball of flame. Just yesterday I was driving home from my job, and this hitchhiker was walking, I blinked, and put pressure on the pedal connected to the brakes just a little to ensure this soul’s safety. The problem was, that when I looked at him again, there was the boy, blonde hair, matted to his head with blood and earth, cloths mashed into his flesh, and his right arm dangling at an angel that gave the impression of pain and anguish.

Another thing about eulogies that makes me laugh and then lapse back into thinking is the line ‘(s) he will be missed by many’. What a lie. Most people who take their lives seem to be outcasts, despite what school officials say. People such as myself, seem to draw within themselves, and ultimately, the only people who miss them are themselves and people who feel obligated to, such is the case with myself. I remember when my mom asked me why I don’t have a lot of friends around, not that I did in the first place, but recently, my friends are fed up with me and my ranting about death. They think I bought into the trend of being depressed and gaining props because of it, oh if they only knew, I wish I could of told someone, but it would be unfair of me to share the guilt with anyone.

If the haunting image of the boy’s face wasn’t enough to drive me to this shameful end, the sounds were. Every time I closed my eyes, I heard my panicked breaths and my futile scream at him to get out of the way, always blaring at me from the loud speaker in my head. Then, to top it off, the crème Della crème if you will, were the dreams. Vivid shades of gray, white, black, and red all blurring together in a hellish nightmare loop of that day haunts my sleep. Sleeping is no longer restful, I wake up as tired as I used to be before I went to sleep, and I get so tired that I’m not sure what’s a dream, and what’s real. Why, just last night, I ‘awoke’ from the above mentioned dream, only to find myself staring at the boy in all his mangled and deformed glory, only to wake up once again, into, hopefully, the real world. It’s too much to bear now, and for this I’m sorry, I truly am, but no amount of medication could erase the shame and guilt I feel for this. I know a lot of you will be left slack jawed at this confession, but it’s the only way to make you see. This seems to be the only way to get this off my chest without having my chest move up and down with my breath.

One last thing, when you find my body, please don’t bury me in the same earth as my tragedy, instead, I implore you to cremate me, and take my ashes and put them at the base of an Oak tree in the center of a field. Why this place you may ask, and to be honest I don’t know, but right now that’s what invades my vision, which is slowly receding even as I write this, taking pain staking lengths not to get my life’s liquid on this note. And here is this biggest oddity of all, this field is drenched in the same rain that conspired with my car to take the life of this boy, but don’t worry, instead, take solace in the knowledge I wont be alone here, there’s my lady in her flowing red dress.

An Eulogy, as posted in the Town Cryer:

Corey Smay; 1987-2002
‘A joy to be around, and beloved
son and brother that was taken
before his time. He will be
missed by many; service will
be held at….’