How To Die in 40 Days

Are you paying attention?

I won’t waste my time on you if you’re not. I've squandered too many hours on those who used me while I was on Earth, and I refuse to lose even a moment of my blissful eternity on someone like them. If you’re here to profit off me, I recommend you stop reading, because I have done some unkind things to people like you.

It all began on April 8th. To most, it was an ordinary day, but not to those with ambition. That was the day I committed suicide. However, I imagine April 7th was one of the happiest days of my life because I got to put my final thoughts into motion. I had to make sure everything was perfect, because my father, my older sister, and my ex-boyfriend were going to be framed for my murder.
That sounded rather dramatic, but it’s just so much fun to say. To some of you, that may seem rather sick or even crazy, but I assure you my little sixteen-year-old head was screwed on just fine. Besides, they deserved it; each and every one of them did, and it feels so good to have something to revel in during my time in the afterlife.

We lived in the beautiful suburbs of St. Louis, Missouri. The city was a little rough around the edges, but so were its citizens, so it wasn’t anything we couldn’t handle. In fact, I actually find myself missing it from time to time. My father loved to root himself into my life wherever he could. He was a chemist at a massive agrochemical company called Monsanto which is headquartered in my beloved city. My mother, on the other hand, up and left my family when I was four. I would rarely ever talk about her, and even now, I’m not about to bring up those hollow feelings. I suppose you’re wondering why I would do anything to harm a smart and loving single father of two.

I’d be happy to explain. When I was about fourteen, I told my father a small lie. He returned home that evening. In a flash, his long, callused talons were tangled in my hair, dragging me across the kitchen floor. He brought me to the living room before throwing me down and proceeding to throw jabs into my sides, my back, and towards my face. Sometimes when I close my eyes, I still hear my pitiful screams.

“No daddy stop! I didn’t mean it, daddy!”

I don’t know when it stopped. Oddly enough, I never felt any pain; my body was engulfed in shock. It wasn’t until a little while later that I realized a cut had formed on the underside of my arm. It ran from my elbow to my armpit and stung whenever a drop of sweat seeped into the broken skin. I’m not sure when it sliced open, but I assume it doesn’t really matter.

That night I wasn’t allowed to go up to my bedroom to sleep. I laid on the cold wooden floor for a while as my father ranted about how useless and stupid I was. I remember zoning out occasionally, wondering if my mother knew the hands she had left me in. Neither a yes nor a no answer spared me any amount of pain. Finally, I heard a deep breath stem from my father’s lips. My brown eyes looked up at his silhouette, searching through the darkness to catch even a glimpse of his wrinkled face. I felt my lungs clench and my heart stop when I heard him utter a sentence that even death hasn’t let me forget.

“Camila, if you touch a pillow or a blanket, I will kill you.{/

I wish I could tell you that this never happened again or that I wrote the inspirational book, did the famous motivational speaking gig for a while before moving on with my life. I wish I could, but that’s not what happened.

Now I know what you’re thinking: why didn’t I call the police or tell a teacher or whatever shit abused kids are supposed to do these days? If you have to ask that, you’ve never feared someone the way I feared my father.

Let’s not forget though that this story has a happy ending. He’s spending the rest of his life in jail for my murder. I came up with the idea one day as I was skimming through my father’s office. He loved to show me off to his co-workers; talk me up like I was some sort of Herculean figure, but then at home somehow, I was reduced to Koalemos. I’d show him though.

Back in 2014, there was an Italian nurse who found her patients rather annoying and began injecting them with potassium. The excess of potassium in their bodies paralyzed them and forced them to suffer a various array of other symptoms. Eventually, their hearts would stop beating and their lungs expanding. Then, quite unceremoniously, they died. But that’s not the best part. Because potassium is in the human body, the concentrations balanced out in their cold lifeless bodies and the murder weapon would essentially evaporate into thin air. She killed over thirty people using that method. She was a genius and that intrigued me.

Why couldn’t I do the same thing? Yet, if you’re thinking about doing this, you can’t fuck this up. If you do, you could put everything in jeopardy. Go out during a break from work or school with a handful of cash, preferably some that you secretly stole from the people you intend to frame. Whatever you do, don’t use a credit card. After that, head down to a convenience store and pick up some potassium chloride and a couple pairs of gloves. Make sure to go somewhere out of town where no one will recognize you. If your father is a chemist like mine, simply switch the jar of KCl out with the one you bought. He’ll use it and get his DNA all over it. When you pick it up, make sure to wear gloves, so your fingerprints stay off of it.

Boom. You have a murder weapon.

A murder weapon isn’t enough though. Not if you want to ensure that those worthless pigs stay in prison for the rest of their miserable lives. Fear not though. This lesson is far from over.

I often wonder who I hated more. My father for causing me such emotional and physical pain or my older sister who bore witness to my suffering and did nothing about it. She saw everything he had done to me. She heeded every punch; she overheard every hurtful word that he hurled at me, and yet, Jazmín just stood there, watching the light leave my eyes little by little without so much as a whisper of support.

Would you do that to me too, dear reader? Would you watch as I begged for mercy with a stone-cold look plastered on your face? Let’s not lie to each other. Of course, you would. I’ve found that it’s only human nature to do so.
Jaz was three years older than me, and I hated everything about her. Her long gorgeous black locks, her perfect test scores, and worst of all, her know-it-all attitude. Oddly enough though, I started to feel a bit emotional when she began to pack her bags for college.

I can’t believe I’m actually going to say this, but I was relieved when she finally came to visit over winter break. Sure, she still had her fucking stuck-up attitude, but she was still a person. I’m not sure why but the presence of another human being in the house other than just my father and I comforted me, even when I knew full well that person wasn’t on my side.

Even so, when Jaz returned, I could tell something was different. Her usually-confident front wavered more than it used to. I’d hear her sneak out her bedroom window every night, and usually, I wouldn’t hear her come back until early the next morning. She never used to do that.

Though she was the favorite child, I knew my father wouldn’t tolerate her sneaking around behind his back, but I also couldn’t fathom what would be so terrible that she couldn’t communicate it to him. At first, I assumed it was drugs or alcohol, and trust me when I say nothing would make me happier to know that my seemingly-perfect sister had fallen under either of those unholy spells, but that wasn’t the case. It was much worse than that.

Jazmín was gay.

Now before you start ranting about how being gay isn’t a bad thing, let me hit the pause button for you. My sister was playing with fire, and she knew it. We never talked about it, but both of us recognized that being gay wasn’t acceptable in our house. I mean that would have ruined her, and I guarantee you that my father would have turned his violent actions towards her if he had ever found out. As much as I would love to see my sister put in her place, I never told him. Instead, I used her secret to my advantage. Why should I help her? She never helped me.

Like a dumbass, Jazmín would bring her girlfriends around when my father was out of town or working late, so this was really her own fault. I mean she made it so easy to get a recording of her and one of her girlfriends having sex in her bedroom. For as smart as she was, Jazmín made horrible life decisions, but I’m not complaining. It made my life a little easier, because now I had motive for her to kill me.

To make things even better (or worse depending how you see all this), I wrote a letter to her, explaining that if she didn’t go to the police and get help for me, I would send this tape to everyone she knew. She never saw it, but the detectives thought she had.
The key to this, dear reader, is to be clever. Grab a pair of unused gloves and plant a piece of loose-leaf paper on top of something that you know your sibling is going to use. I placed mine on her bed, but it can be anywhere you want. Just make sure they have to move it. After that, wait. It’ll end up in another place sooner or later. If you’re lucky like I was, your sibling will crumple it up and throw it away. After that, take it back and write your note. In the end, your fingerprints should be on it and so should theirs. Once that’s finished, hide it in your sibling’s bedroom. It should be in a place where he or she won’t find it, but a detective or a trained officer will stumble upon it when they search the house.

Now, I want to make one thing perfectly clear: I never had the intention of showing anyone the tape. I figured my lawyers would see it, but I never thought it would blow up the way that it did. Unfortunately, after I died, the whole world saw it because the state decided to use it as evidence in my court case. I didn’t know they would do that. I was sixteen; I didn’t know all the ins and outs of the legal system. Hell, I wouldn’t have even known how to kill myself properly without the mountain of research that I did. During my trial, my older sister was pegged as this maniacal, sex demon who helped kill her poor, innocent sister to keep her dirty little secret safe. Yes, I wanted that, but I didn’t want it to go this far.

I figure that by now you probably think I’m a complete and utter psychopath but let me assure you that there’s nothing wrong with me. I had experiences and those shaped me; I’m sure you did too. We just did different things with our experiences. That’s the only thing that separates you and me.

Don’t worry though. I’m almost done. I only have one more person to talk about. Peter Mitchell. He was a 6ft tall, blue-eyed soccer player from St. Louis. We went to the same high school, met at a football game, and over the course of a year, I fell in love with him. He was everything to me, because for a split second I thought he was going to be my escape from this miserable, negligent world.
I was stupid for thinking that.

Peter, I pray that my father and Jazmín never read this, but I hope you do, because you deserve to know what you did to me. They were afraid to help me because they had my abuse looming over them. You didn’t have anything to fear, and every day you watched me get off that bus, and walk back into that house, knowing what was going to transpire. You didn’t protect me like you said you would, and because of that, you helped kill me.

Technically, I’m not lying. These three people killed me. It just didn’t happen the same way I made it look like it happened. That’s it. I didn’t lie or exaggerate to make them look any worse than they were. I’m just telling you what occurred. That’s all. It’s the truth. It’s my truth.

I really did think Peter was going to be my savior. I thought it was going to be like the Disney movies. He was going ride up on a white horse, defeat the dragon, and carry me away to our happily ever after. For a moment, I was loved, and I had never felt that before. Once I had a taste of that, I never wanted to let it go. You’d feel the same way.

After our one-year anniversary, I started to realize that he was growing more and more distant. I knew that he was busy traveling to different college showcases since he wanted to continue playing soccer at the next level, and I was proud of him for wanting that. If it was important to him, then it was important to me too.

On February 27th, everything changed. This was the beginning of the end for me. There was a rumor going around school about how Peter and a freshman girl that I had never met hooked up at a party the night before. I won’t lie. That rumor tormented me. I didn’t even know if it was true or not, but that didn’t matter. The sheer thought of Peter with someone else destroyed me.
After first period English, I made my way to his locker to talk to him about the whole situation. My mind was racing with every response he could possibly give me. Would he lie? I would lie. Then again, I say that now, but it doesn’t mean anything. There’s no repercussions for my actions anymore.

You said it never happened, Peter. You told me that you had never even heard her name before let alone slept with her. The name that drips from my lips like cyanide. Alana Williams. The beautiful blonde, talented freshman. You got her drunk and you raped her. My knight in shining armor. That’s why you’re murderer number three.

Peter set this ball in motion, so I suppose I should really be thanking him. You should as well, dear reader. He’s the reason that you get to read all this gossip. Don’t act like you’re not enjoying every juicy detail I’m giving you. It’s human nature to be interested in another person’s history. You’re only human.

The following Friday, I left school at lunch, got in my car, and drove straight out of town. I sped past the Missouri River, and past St. Charles. I didn’t stop until I came to a part of town that I had never seen before. I parked in a Wal-Mart lot, slammed my door, and marched inside. I knew what I needed, and I knew this was going to work. I knew I was going to frame three people for murder. I took a deep breath before walking through the automatic door and entering that infamous world of blue and white.

The key, my friends, is to buy one disposable phone at a time. Of course, you should use cash. However, heed my warning when I tell you not to buy from the same place. You should be just another young, innocent person out to buy a cellphone. You can be angry, upset, or even sad, but don’t let them see it. They’ll remember you easily if you do that. You need to be just another passing face. The only other tip I have for you is to buy them early. You want to make sure the security footage has been taped over for that day. That way if some know-it-all employee thinks that they saw you, there won’t be any evidence that you were there.

All of my shopping was done within a week. I had collected three cheap, disposable phones. Each one was a different brand, size, and model. Then, my artistry began. I formulated texts from each of them. Hundreds of messages describing how, when, and why I had to be disposed of. I made my father mastermind as he would have been. Remember, I’m not lying. They would have done this to me eventually. I knew my sister’s secret. Peter was afraid I was going to talk about what he did and ruin his chances of getting into any college, thus destroying his dreams of playing soccer at the collegiate level. Finally, my father knew that I was getting close to cracking any day now. He knew I was going to slip up and people would start finding out what he had done to me for so long. They were going to kill me. I just made sure they wouldn’t get away with it.

Now this is the hard part. Pay attention, my friend. Everything else up to this point has been fairly straight forward, but this will either make your case or destroy everything you’ve been working towards. The texts messages must appear real. This is your damning piece of evidence. Study the way the individual talks and texts. Try to get into their minds. Make this as real as possible. If they don’t live in your home, you need to go where that individual lives to text. You want to ensure that these messages ‘ping’ the correct cellular tower.

Well my friends, we’re leading up to the point you’ve all been fucking waiting for. I mean come on. The only reason you’re still here is because you want to know how I finally died. I did think about ending my story here just to be cruel, but then I realized this was kind of fun. I suppose I’ll indulge your curiosity but only for my own amusement.

I went to school that day just like I would any other. I tried not act different though I don’t know if I succeeded. Peter and I were still talking. Sometimes we would be cordial, but other times, a screaming match would break out. Though we were still talking, I didn’t condone what he did; I just needed to keep him around so that everything would go according to plan. It’s important to me that you know that.

After school, I went home and did homework that I had no intention of turning in. I studied for a test that I knew I would never take. I had to make it look like I believed I would step foot back into that school. I watched the sun go down, knowing I’d never see the sun again. I ate dinner alone because my father was working late, and my sister was nowhere to be found.

After I ate, I put my final plans into motion. First, I destroyed two of the sim cards that resided in the disposable phones. I smashed my father’s with a hammer and threw my sister’s into the fireplace, leaving it to burn. I didn’t do either of those things to Peter’s though. Peter’s too stupid to destroy his. I tossed Peter’s in the dumpster behind his house where the detectives would find it 3 days later. They would see every detail of their conversations through that one small ‘mistake’.

As soon as I got home, I made sure I was alone before putting the finishing touches on my murder weapon. I went upstairs to my bathroom before slipping a pair of gloves, and slowly but surely opening up each one of my medicine capsules.
Now let me explain. It would have been much easier to utilize a syringe and inject the potassium straight into my blood. However, there are two problems with this. The first is that it isn’t plausible. I’m afraid of my father, but if he ever tried to inject anything into me, I would have fought for my life. He would have scratches on his arms and face, and I would probably have bruises where he restrained me. I can’t do that to myself, so that wouldn’t work.

The second problem I found was the potassium would take effect too quickly. Yes, there’s a lot of evidence against my three murderers, but there was one thing I did know about the legal system. Juries love murder weapons. They will want to know how I died before delivering a sentence of first degree murder. The problem with potassium is that it’s virtually undetectable if it resides in my body for too long. The medicine capsule will protect to potassium for a decent amount of time. Therefore, if I take them around four in the morning, I should be dead by 5:30. Someone will find me by six because they’ll notice I didn’t get up for school, giving police and doctors time to find the excess potassium in my body before the concentration balances out in my corpse.

If you’re going to do this, it’s important that you know how much potassium it will take to kill you. Six millimolar per liter of potassium is what you need in your body to successfully die. I take various medications for anxiety and depression, so all I needed to do was fill my medicine capsules with potassium.

Once that phase was complete, I climbed in my bed, and I waited. I turned on Netflix and just waited for four in the morning to roll around. Honestly, my heart was beating out of my chest the whole time. For the first time in this process, I was scared. What if I didn’t die and just laid there in agony? What was it going to feel like? Where was I going to go once I died?
All of these questions just raced through my mind. They made minutes feel like hours. I almost chickened out. I almost threw those pills out the window and screamed at the top of my lungs, releasing every piece of emotion that I had ever held in. Yet, before I could, a thought entered my mind.

If I don’t do this, I will live in hell for the rest of my life. Am I ready for that?

No. I couldn’t. I couldn’t live that empty, meaningless life. A loveless life. In my mind, everything ends, dear reader. Love, happiness, life, this very story. All of it ends. Why do I need to live for that?

I watched as the clock ticked its final seconds before popping one pill after the other straight into my pretty, young mouth. That sealed my fate. I laid down in my bed, turned my computer off, and just waited for the world to go dark. I waited for my body to malfunction. I waited for my heart to stop beating and my lungs expanding.

Can you imagine that? Can you imagine knowing and waiting for death to take you like it took me. No, you can’t. You can’t possibly understand it until death has his bony fingers around your throat and refuses to let you go.

Did you expect some big magnum opus of an ending? That’s not the way life ends. It just sort of stops.