There once was a boy who never knew what he wanted, where he was going, or why he was living. He just was. He existed in a world of nonsense and believed he was nothing compared to the universe, which was accurate. This, subsequently, made him feel empty. In this universe, he lived on the planet Earth, in a country called America. America was subdivided into smaller divisions by founding fathers. They were not the real fathers of anyone in particular, it just comforted the American population to know that a good sturdy father figure would raise the baby nation. Ironically, these men consisted of slave traders, adulterers, and, murderers, good choice America, very well done. Hence forth, these fathers debated for long lengths of time in order to decide on how this new found land would be ruled once all the Indians were gone. Presently, there are 50 subdivisions, also known as states. He lived in the state of North Dakota in a town called Amityville. Amityville is like many other places in America. He was like many other people in America. We all know someone like him; who says he is perpetually abandoned. You know what Im talking about. He seemed to personify the mood we all occasionally slump into but are able to puzzle out of it, he was that mood, all the time. He was the undivided essence of unhappiness, depression, and teen angst. I saw him every single day of my life. Id pass him in a park when we were little, Id sit next to him in class as we got older, Id pleasantly say hello in the hallway, general things like that. We lived in a town where everyone knew everyones business, so I knew all there was to know about him. Well, I basically knew all the facts about him. You see, he made it crystal clear that no could ever really know who he was because he wouldnt let them. He said that he was empty inside, but what did he want in him? Any way, according to him I didnt know him, but I did. Im human, and humans know other humans. We are all capable of understanding each other we just choose not to because we have to be selfish due to all the time constraints placed on us by our body. I guess thats the problem, human beings are able to do everything, we just have to make some choices and I guess, accordingly, some things must be excluded. Well, at times all of the complaining was easy to listen to. Id indulge in his displeasures because his problems were always worse then mine were. Or so hed say, repeatedly. I guess what frequently happened was that Id end up feeling good about myself after leaving a conversation with him. I mean, I knew I was content with the way things were going. Maybe I could handle it better, or maybe my problems werent as difficult or painful to deal with. I really couldnt tell you, I wasnt in his head. Im not in his head now. But, everything is relative, once persons devastations could be anothers happiness. He was so minuscule in this vast eternal plan that hed go around telling people how worthless they were. Now, although I could easily handle much of the opinions he imposed on me, there were other times in which I felt compelled to punch myself in the face instead of having to listen to another word of his blasphemy against mankind. I was apart of mankind. I was offended. His complaining grew more frequent. He had problems with girls. He had problems with boys. He had problems with his parents. We all have these problems. His were worse. He was popular in a non-popular way. He was extremely intelligent. He was very cute as well, tall, with nice hair, and light blue eyes. His eyes made him look innocent and frankly everything else on him made me want to birth his children. I thought about it actually. Screwing him. In fact, lots of girls wanted to screw him. I really liked his long, blonde, curly, hair and could imagine running my fingers through it. But we didnt, screw that is. Never really got the chance too. He never wanted to screw other girls either. He was a non-relationship sort of guy. He said that a gal, a while ago, broke his heart and now he only had use in the world as an anti-relationship man. Too bad, it was such a waste. He complained at times, that he wanted affection or a girlfriend, or even just some random fuck. But, complaining was a turn off. Women say they like sensitive men, but they are lying. Not even sometimes lying. They are always lying about that. They want a man who is a man. A real man who doesnt complain because what women really want is a sort of security that they can find in a mans arms. He was aggressive but his hands were surprisingly very gentle. His eyes were gentle as well. That was a turn on. Maybe turn offs and turn ons negate each other. I suppose so, but that is not the point. I had learned all this about him in a matter of weeks. Even if you didnt talk to him directly, what he was thinking was apparent through his lack of personal communication. Learning is productive. If we dont care about other people then we become uninteresting because all we talk about are ourselves. No one really wants to hear someone chatting away about themselves . Caring is productive too, and very attractive. He said he didnt want sex. I knew he thought about though. He had had girlfriends in the past. Sometimes he complained about having to jerking off as well, not with the girlfriends. He said he was going to be a one handed man for the rest of his life. He had two hands, but I guess he didnt use both for masturbation. His penis was five inches long. I dont know how that compares to other men. I cant say I have seen all that many. Penises that is, not girlfriends. I have seen a lot of girlfriends. Most arent anything to talk about. He was a very talented person. His passion was sometimes unbearable. It could pierce through you, like a bullet. Thats sort of ironic I suppose, considering how he died. He also read a lot. Reading helps one to become cultured. One, day I asked him why he was reading and he said "because I can." I thought about that for a while. He often made me think. I understand what he meant by that, now. It was an intelligent remark. As I said, he was intelligent. Finally, he began to mention that he wanted to kill himself and not only did he speak about this fascination with suicide he wrote about it too. Poems, stories, music, songs, all different varieties of suicidal art. I dont know if that counts as art. Like I said, he was talented. I enjoyed his poems about the slaughtering his own body. They were interesting. Sometimes they seemed like they were fake and a little pushed, sort of like he just wrote them because he wanted the attention. I also liked his stories about killing himself. Death is always quite interesting. Its probably intriguing because we dont know all that much about it. Maybe thats one of the decisions we have collectively made as humans. Its just too hard to explain what happens, so we tend to, either not care, or make up something. For example something like religion, the belief in and worship of a superhuman controlling power, would roughly answer the questions of the after life. He was a superb writer, superb. At first what he had written scared and enthralled me. They were spectacularly vivid. Hed write about the gushing blood that would poor out of his veins like waterfalls. I like to think about that. Im not afraid of blood and the thought of that seemed beautiful to me, not grotesque. Then, after a while of listening to him talk about how he would plummet to his death, or reading about his bursting orifices, I would generally zone out when he was talking. Then I just became callous to it. He was callous to the world, I guess his poems had an effect on me in the same way. Whenever I saw him, hed have a new tattoo of some awful thing on his body. He started to wear all black and said that he was in morning for his life. He listened to angry music. He was dying inside. He started to do crack. No, he didnt do crack, but he was really very angry at the world. He was quite selfish sometimes. Progressively, all this talk of suicide, death, and non-existence started to annoy me. Now, when I saw him, instead of listening to him, Id ask him questions like, when he was going to do it or how he would execute himself. He had this elaborate architectured design of how it was all going to happen. It was extremely organized. Very Japan/Germany in WWII. First, he said he was going to kill himself on his mothers birthday because it was appropriately the best day to make her feel horrible. It would be like the big bang at the end of a firework session. His death, that was, or so he said. His plan was to slice the tips of his fingers open so he could write with them. What he was going to do was write in very large letters on the wall "THE WORLD WAS MY OYSTER, BUT NOW THE PEARL IS GONE......" The dot, dot, dot, was so people think he wrote more, but he wouldnt have written anything else. He thought if he did this all the people who had found him would be searching for hours in hopes to find the rest of his sentence. At least he had a good sense of humor. Hed read those words in a book somewhere and they always stuck out in his head, he thought they were very meaningful. His pearl was gone because he had died inside. There was no beauty left in him. He told me that as well. He didnt need to say it, I saw it in his eyes. He was so sad to look at. Sometimes Id think about him on my own and cry just thinking about the misery of him. By the way, those words were written by a fisherman lost at sea, not a suicidal teen. I suppose that doesnt matter. After he wrote that on the wall, with his own blood of course, he would proceed to hanging himself with 3 strategically tied together Nintendo cords. They were from the very same Nintendo that girl, who broke his heart, gave him. He said he was going to tie the cords from the roof of his house and jump off, hoping to break his neck on the down from his freefall. He also kept a suicide note in his pocket with him at all times, just in case he had the urge to do it spontaneously, or by some chance he died in a freak accident. He wanted to make absolutely sure that the world would regret treating him that way. He told me his plan every day for weeks. I didnt really care though because I knew hed never do it. And anyway he was dead already so he hadnt the strength to carry through with it. And so on and so it went. He lived his life the very same way for the next month, promising the destruction of himself. And after a month he was dead, physically dead. Finally, he had been put out of his misery. His pathetic, meaningless, life was over. A few days passed and he had a beautiful funeral. The cords were lying on top of his casket and everyone was crying. Lots of people were there. Not just people who wanted the free food, but those who were truly felt desolate at the loss of their fellow man. He was human, they were human, they had something in common. He said no one cared about him, but both his parents were in tears. His mother cried for weeks afterwards. Shed always remember that her birthday was the death of her only son and her only child. It was a pity that he had to die. I guess thats life. It was his decision to kill himself. He was dead for some time now, long before his body took notice that his heart gave up. The casket was oak and closed because of the holes in his head. It was a site to see, his blood was splattered all over the walls behind him, but there were no words on the wall, no tricky jokes played on the world, although he did have the suicide note on him. It said "Im sorry" and that was it. He died that day but not because he had the fierceness to end it all but because I shot him. He wanted to die and he was now dead. It was, simply the decision he made, not mine. I did not kill him, he killed himself. He committed suicide, I only pulled the trigger.