Eating a Bullet

         You know, it's funny all of the things you think of when you sit down to eat a bullet. Like, hmm, I wonder if my mom will like the birthday present I bought. Or, mmm, a steak would taste good about now. Yeah, but hey, I’m not going to need a steak ever again. I’m just tired of being sad. It’s never ending, I think I have had three happy days out of this whole year. There were even less last year. I have wondered if perhaps I should wait until after the holiday season. After all, I’m depressed, not heartless, and it would be horrible for my family to lose me during Christmas time. No, if I wait I will lose my nerve, so I must do it now, but not before I explain why.
         I am 17 years old, and I’ve never had a girlfriend. In fact the only real friend I ever had died about three years ago. So I am alone, I mean there is my family, but that’s different. All of the other kids at school make fun of me, call me fat Freddy, or pizza face Freddy, and a multitude of other names. Some of the guys enjoy slapping my books out of my hands, and then pushing me down when I reach to pick them up. The one time when I tried to fight back, they ganged up on me. There were three guys, two of them grabbed me while the third one punched me. When they let me go, they all took turns kicking me a couple of times and then went off happy as larks. I have gone to the school councelor for help, and she sent me to a real therapist. I went to therapy for a couple of months, but it got really old talking about the same shit, and then explaining how it made me feel.
         I guess the teasing at school, and all of that, really wouldn’t be so bad if I still had John. John was the only person I have ever met that didn’t make fun of me. In fact I think he was the nicest person I have ever met, but he died. Maybe that is the whole cause of this. John would help me up when they pushed me down. John would come over to my house and play video games with me. He really liked me, he didn’t care that I was fat, or had the worst case of acne ever recorded. He was my best friend, and three years ago a drunk driver killed him and his father. He was actually on his way to my house. I called him one Saturday night, and asked him to come over. His dad said he would bring him and they left. They never made it to my house. A 19 year old kid had been to a party and drunk way to much. He was flying down the road in his Camaro, he came around a curve on the wrong side of the road, and hit them head on. The kid was killed instantly, and so was John’s dad. John however lived for three agonizing days, and died in the hospital. I think that is when my depression really started. I blamed myself for John’s death, I mean if I hadn’t asked him over, he would never have been on the road, and he would still be alive.
         So there it is, and now I think I really understand the reason I am going to pick up this .22 and eat a bullet.