Your Prize... My Prize...

The gun felt cold in his hand. Its bright shiny barrel glinted in the light of the full moon. Staring down the sites, aiming at the sky, Derrick sighed. Nobody cared about him; at least no one showed they did. Sometimes his father tried to psyche himself up to show affection. These attempts usually failed though.


It is cold tonight; he should have grabbed a sweater, but it doesn't really matter; he won't need it for long. Maybe someone would notice the e-mail he had sent. Just about everyone in his school, including his teachers, should have received one. Maybe they just didn't care. Nobody seemed to look past his acne or hunched shoulders. He was sure his Father, at work, would not read it; if only because it had Derrick's screen name on it.


His mother had died when he was nine months old. He didn't miss her. He had not known her. His father was deeply religious, a devout Catholic, and had not even tried to fill the gap. All John Grant ever did for Derrick was buy him stuff, but he spent no time with his son except to shove catholicism, or his interpretations of it, down Derrick's throat.


The .357 Magnum was beginning to feel heavy; maybe he should think this through. Maybe if he tried for another few weeks, someone would take interest in him. No, he had fooled himself that way too many times. He was going to do it. Tonight. Right now.


Raising the muzzle, so that the cold metal pressed against his temple; he flipped the safety off. Would he die faster if he put it in his mouth? At temple or in mouth, which position would hurt less? He should have researched that on the Internet first. But wait, that would be absurd, how could somebody who was dead teach him how to die?


He would wait just a few more minutes, somebody would see his e-mail. They would enter the park and look for the swing set. He would be right where he told them he would; in the fourth swing from the right. This was where he had sat, all alone, for many hours as a child. Recently he had been sitting here,at night, debating the issue he was dealing with tonight: try for a little while longer or be forever deadened to the loneliness.


Tonight was different though, he had gotten his report card today. He had not one passing grade; his dad was going to explode in anger. His school Principal had told him he would be held back for a second year of twelfth grade. He could not take another year of school. Even the freshman made fun of him. So much for his senior year.


Something rustled in the bushes beside the slide. Somebody cared? But who? Certainly not his father. Perhaps it was that girl, Jacylan. He had had a crush on her since the fourth grade. She was nice to him and they held a conversation every once and a while; mostly with him murmuring mono-syllables. Maybe it was her.


"Hello! Is anyone there?" he called, putting the safety guard back in place. The gun had a tendency to go off when it wasn't supposed to, if the safety was off.


The bushes stirred again, something was emerging from their depths. It was a cat, he hated cats. Click, he flipped the safety off again, but the ugly thing ran off before he could get a shot at it.

"Stupid cat," he mumbled.

Click.

Death by suicide, it had a ring to it; he liked that. He could see it in the Springfield Weekly Newspaper, on the back page, "Anonymous youth committed suicide last Friday, does anybody know him?". The police would show everyone in town a blown up version of his driver's license. The town was small enough that the population could be reached in a few days. Anyone who did recognize him, would more than likely deny it. Of course his father would denounce Derrick as his son. Suicide went against his belief; religion came first in John Grant's book.


His passing would not even cause a ripple in the daily routine of Springfield, Virginia. No, that's not right. Their routine would be ruptured. No one had ever killed themselves in Springfield. Yes, that was what he wanted.

Looking down at his note, which he had written last week, he read it again to make sure the writing was legible.

He had originally typed it on his computer, but the printer wasn't working. It didn't really matter if the printer was broken though, considering they were out of paper anyway. Because of those complications he had decided to write it out.

He had grabbed an often used pencil and his English essay over To Kill A Mockingbird. All he did was erase the essay and scribble the note. He then erased and rescribbled it several more times, each composure closer to perfection than the last. The paper now had permanent creases in it, and the top right edge was ripped off. Tonight was the night someone else would read it.


It's been fifteen minutes. Obviously nobody had noticed his wrecked car by the street. Oh well, it's show time. Stuffing his note into his wallet, he decided to place the gun in his mouth this time. Man, the gun was cold, and it hurt his teeth. The metallic taste did not counter the bitterness of the gunpowder on his tongue. Best to get it done quickly, before he got any colder. Click. He heard a car coming. It was slowing down. He sat in that position, waiting to see who it was.


A car door opened and slammed shut. He heard the sound of boots clopping across the basketball court. Still in the same position, he waited for the person to walk into his view.

Before the being came into his vision it called, " Derrick? It's me Jacylan.".

His heart leaping, he turned to see her, gun in mouth. volcanic eruptions ensued.



In his wallet,covered in crimsom fluids, a note was found:

~My Plea~
Nobody likes me
Nobody cares,
Maybe you will be sorry
Springfield beware,
I am a nobody
You are the crowd,
Maybe you will miss me
But of those odds I'm not proud,
I gave you a shout
that told of the park in Eastside,
But I've taken the best way out
Death by suicide.

You have found my body. I wonder how long it took. Anyway it is too late. Claim your prize.

Your prize... noticing me,
my prize... getting noticed.

What now Dad!