Self-Destruct (Keller) Part I

It's one in the morning, and I am about to die. I grip a bottle of Xanax in one hand, the other propped up on a thin stack of notes: one for my mom, one for my best friend, Blair, and a generic "you've been great" spiel to everyone and no one in particular. I don't need to write many--I can list the number of friends I have on one hand, easy. I'm not a loner--I'm not even picky about relationships. I'm just too eclectic--it's like I'm that kid in an ice cream shop choosing twelve different flavors at once even though none of them jive.
         New to this whole suicide thing, I decide that I should at least give my best friend a fair warning, a poor man's buffer for when she finds out. "Blair, I'm done," I type. "Sweet. See ya tomorrow," she replies. My first instinct is to pile on more details, to clarify something she clearly misunderstands. But the less she knows, the better. I know she can't stop me. I'll spare her the guilt of feeling like she could.
         I slide my phone underneath a shower cap. I know I'll be dead by the time they get to it, and dead people don't care about who's flipping through their texts, but you never know. My knowledge of death is about as extensive as my knowledge of the Civil War. I was the only kid in 8th grade American History to hand in not one, but two reports about George Washington's role in Gettysburg. And when asked who won the war, I cried "the British" with utmost confidence. The point is, when it comes to death, all I know is that it has to be better than living a lie.
         Before I can grasp what suicide will really mean, I pop the cap off the vial. Almost full. I don't bother to count the number of tablets left, just take a small fistful and wash them down with a swig of booze. The back of my throat is on fire, but at this point, I don't care. Just another excuse to end this as quickly as possible. I chase a few more down, taking a couple gulps to swallow them all. Four more. Three. I pop pills and drink until there are only two pills left. Someone pounds on the door, screaming my name, but I am fading too fast to hear. I take one final sip of tequila, and melt into nothing.