Adam's Suicide Note

Rated 12+ for language and mention of death.

Quick Info~

I randomly became intrigued with the idea of writing a suicide note. I liked this one, but I might write another one in where the killer is a lot less noble and the story line makes sense.

Novel idea, I know. [Literally]

Anyway. Enjoy.

Slight grammar mistakes are obvious. He's an eighteen year old boy and he's dying, so, he's not really writing his best.

Here~

Dear Reader,

I have finally come up with who this is addressed to. After seventeen tries and retries, over and over again, I finally have the perfect title. Most likely, you’re a police officer, or my mother, or my father, or (as I really hope when she’s old enough) Isabella. You could also be reading this off the archive of suicide notes online or in some musty old police room, stuffed to the ceiling with needless junk and items. I’ve read quite a few myself and picked up some helpful tips.

Even so, this is my . . . twenty-ninth try at a letter? Even though I’ve got the heading right, the info sounds all messed up and confused. I was never a really strong writer, as you know, Mom, but you could have at least read something I wrote. Something. Anything. Well. I know for sure you’ll read or listen to this note. Which is why it has to be perfect. Who knows? This could be another one thrown in my brimming wastebasket. You can read some of the mistakes if you want, I don’t care. It’s to the left of my desk, under the Rolling Stone CDs. Please, feel free.

So . . . a suicide note. I’d like to first let you know that all of the blame rests in Robbie Marcus Richards hands (got that name, sheriff? Robbie Marcus Richards). Dad, that son-of-a-bitch hasn’t been my friend since third grade, and maybe if you had believed me, none of this shit would have happened. … Jesus, I need to watch my language. I don’t want Isabella reading that.

Which is another thing about this whole ordeal. I get it. Isabella won’t understand. And I also get that you think by making her forget about me, she wouldn’t go through trauma. Well, that was fine when Great-Great-Great Grandpa died, but I’m her damn brother. Show some respect. I don’t want you ever pretending I never existed. I want Isabella at my funeral, dressed in her favorite rainbow dress, and I don’t want you to tear my name off her bear or from the tags on her favorite dress up clothes, or even empty my room, repaint it, and call Grandma to live there. And don’t even be shocked that I said that, Mom, because you always told me that’s exactly what you did the second you were lucky enough for me to die.

I know. I’m getting you in trouble with the police now. But listen, sheriff, they were nice enough. They fed me, clothed me, came to my games. My dad read a few of the things I wrote. My mom gave me advice occasionally. Still, my favorite member always is and always will be Isabella. I’d die for that girl. Well, that’s actually what I’m doing right now.

Back to Robbie Richards. I hate him. He threatened me if I ever told anyone, but hey, this is a suicide note, what’ve I got to fear? He tried to rape Isabella. That sick bastard tried to rape my sister when she was two years old. That was freshmen year. God Almighty, I hate Robbie Richards.

I stopped him, obviously. Isabella is fine. Clean and pure and what-not. And since freshmen year, I’ve been protecting her from Robbie Marcus Richards. I’ll say that name again, sheriff. ROBBIE. MARCUS. RICHARDS.

So . . . why did I die?

Good question, reader.

Recently, Isabella’s life has been in danger because of Robbie Marcus Richards (make sure you’ve got that name down. I can say it all day, if you need me to). That’s why I tried to get us to move. That’s why I tried to run away with Isabella. To protect her from--make sure you have your notebooks out--ROBBIE MARCUS RICHARDS.

But the question still stands. Unfortunately, I couldn’t just fall off the radar. I’m a senior now. I have responsibilities and what-not. Moving and slipping off the radar and hiding with Isabella became impossible. Robbie Marcus Richards has gathered enough people that he could easily overtake our house and kill Isabella. He would have killed me, too. He tried, the last time he broke in, just two weeks ago when you guys (uh, sorry--Mom and Dad) were at the game. He almost killed me. But he didn’t.

So listen to me, and listen to me carefully. Get out of here. Take Isabella and leave. If not, get put in witness protection. Have sheriffs surround the house. ANYTHING. Just keep my baby sister safe.

Oh, and police--for proof or whatever, check my closest, right-hand corner, big brown box with the words ‘EVIDENCE’ on it.

This is one of my worst attempts at a letter, but unfortunately, the drugs are starting to kick in.

Goodbye, Isabella. I love you. This is all to protect you. Please, don’t ever forget me.

~ Adam