Page 21

Los Angeles Paz

11:34 a.m. (Pacific Daylight Time)

I ’ m home alone, planning my death.

An hour ago, I got Rolando to believe I was all good so he could go job hunt in peace, especially now that I won’t be making

that movie money, but really I just needed him out of the house so I could bleach all the clothes and sheets I’ve bloodied.

I’m in the living room, opening my laptop so I can go on my favorite website and plan for my short-term future. I’m immediately distracted by my messy desktop background. I used to be more organized when I didn’t want any icons blocking my favorite still of the movie of me as young Larkin Cano holding the iron wand, but that memory started stinging too much, so I swapped it out for a picture of a rainy night, since we don’t get enough of those in LA. Now there’s just a storm of files and folders: fanfics that shipped Scorpius Hawthorne and Larkin Cano because I love enemies-to-lovers; steamy fan art that I preferred over porn whenever my dick was shouting for a quick release; the five final-draft files for the short films I wrote but never filmed; drafts of things I wanted to say to Dad before finally handwriting a letter to him on my birthday; and the biggest clusters are the dozens of media articles that reported on my incident over the years, including the ones that have been surfacing the past few months because of the docuseries and how close we are to the ten-year anniversary.

I’m tempted to delete every file because what’s the point of cleaning this up? It’s not like I’m ever gonna make these short

films anyway. And what, is this fan art of Vale and Orson from Golden Heart kissing in a silver sky really gonna cheer me up? How about the fanfic where Larkin and Scorpius compete in a tournament

but can’t find the will to kill each other in the final round? No, all rereading that story is gonna do is remind me that

killing is always a choice, even if it didn’t feel that way when I shot Dad before he could beat Mom to death.

I almost slam my fists down on my keyboard, pissed that I can’t even do something as simple as go on my laptop without being

reminded of what a killer I am. Instead, I highlight every icon and drag everything into the trash, leaving nothing but a

rainy sky.

My therapist wants me to have better control over my impulses. I can practically hear Raquel gently reminding me that there were other options instead of throwing everything away, like putting all my files in a folder so the chaos is out of sight and hey, who knows if I’m feeling sentimental down the line and wanna look at them later. She’s doing all of this so I won’t do anything rash, like swallowing pills, which is sorta working, but not how she would like.

The truth is that while the act of suicide was a lot more impulsive before the days of Death-Cast, it now requires premeditation

to pull it off, which is why I spend a lot of time on Edge-of-the-Deck, an online forum for people who tried and failed to

become Deckers, and I study where all their suicide plans went wrong so that when I go to kill myself at the end of the month,

I won’t find myself back here telling my own story.

After my suicide attempts, I unfortunately had all the time in the world, so I ended up on Reddit to see if other people felt

like total losers for not being able to kill themselves. I definitely wasn’t alone, just like everyone tells you whenever

you mention you’re depressed, but I really got the full scope when this Reddit user recommended Edge-of-the-Deck as a resource

that even Death-Cast had begun promoting for those struggling with suicidal thoughts.

Edge-of-the-Deck is a really vulnerable forum where the survivors weighed in on what they tried: a young man who couldn’t swim rented a Jet Ski and flung himself into the water, only for the owner to save him before he could sink, and he was ultimately so grateful for another shot at life; a stressed doctor jumped off a highway bridge, causing internal damage, but she was revived by her colleagues and lived to save others; and a boy was committed to dying after his sister got her End Day call, but when he tried suffocating himself, his survival instincts kicked in and he clawed open the plastic bag, and at first he hated himself for not going through with it, but he was now proud to be alive to write that message. There were so many other stories, some with methods so horrific that I couldn’t keep reading, but for the ones I did finish, all the survivors had the same warning: Death-Cast is never wrong.

I go to Edge-of-the-Deck. There’s a pop-up message saying to dial that new 988 number to reach the Suicide and Crisis hotline

if I’m struggling. I click it closed because I’m not calling anyone for help unless they’re trying to help me die. The site

is very easy on the eyes, looking like a digital sky with its blue and white shades. There are audio options for white noise,

gentle music, and meditations to calm visitors down, but I don’t play any. I’m not here for vibes or breathing exercises;

I’m here to make sure there’s no flaw in my suicide plan. So far there hasn’t been any story that suggests my idea is stupid,

but I have no way of knowing if that’s because no one who tried my exact plan survived then also shared their backfired experience

here, or because they actually achieved suicide. I really hope they got their way, because if I survive what I’m planning,

my life will become significantly worse.

I open a trending thread on the forum.

StillHere6790

WHAT IF I QUIT DEATH-CAST?

(Trigger warning: suicide)

I know it’s probably stupid to put a trigger warning on a site where we all talk about suicide but a lot of you seem to have healed and like still being here on earth. I’m still here too, but I don’t like it. I want to die so if you don’t want to read about that then stop reading now. I have a question. IDK if it’s okay to ask, delete this if not, but what happens if I quit Death-Cast? Would I feel braver to attempt suicide? Scared to try? IDK. I’m 30 years old so I remember what it was like growing up without Death-Cast, but I’ve also now had Death-Cast in my life for 10 years. It would be weird to quit. I keep thinking it would be like trading my iPhone for an old flip phone that can’t tell me anything except who’s calling. Anyway, I regret not trying to kill myself before Death-Cast existed. I only signed up because I thought I would get a call and it would bring me peace but they never call. Now I just feel trapped and I think quitting would give me freedom to try to die.

TL;DR: Did you quit Death-Cast and try to take your life? What happened?

I don’t think about life without Death-Cast anymore. That was such a different time, where my dad was alive and I had a fear of dying instead of now, where my life has been defined by killing my dad and being desperate to die. If only I could go back to being that kid who was flying to Brazil with his mom, scared that the plane would crash before he ever made it to set to meet his favorite actors and film his scene in a movie. That fear is impossible today unless you opt out of Death-Cast like the OP—original poster—is aiming to do. I thought about canceling my Death-Cast subscription for the same reasons the OP wants to, but I missed my opportunity. I should’ve done it when I was eighteen, before I ever attempted suicide instead of now at nineteen, four months after my first attempt. There’s no lie Mom or Rolando would believe about me opting out of Death-Cast that wouldn’t make them suspicious. I get a lot past them, but there’s a line. I’ve made peace with keeping Death-Cast around, especially since there’s still a window of opportunity for them to call when I execute my suicide plan, but I read through the many comments to see if anyone found quitting Death-Cast to be helpful.

StillHere6790 posted their question over an hour ago, and there’s already thirty-something responses, which is a lot for a

site where people usually trauma-dump or brag about how their lives are better and then move on. Most of the comments are

words of encouragement to keep soldiering through life, and that’s not surprising, but if this were my post where I was telling

strangers how I wanna die, the last thing I would wanna hear are reasons to live. I’m sure they once felt that way too, but

how can they forget that having so many people you don’t know trying to save you can feel so suffocating?

I skim through the responses for the ones that actually answer the OP’s question:

ThisIsMeTrying

I felt like Death-Cast was holding me back so I deactivated my account. I thought I was going to feel brave but I’ve never

been more scared in my life.

OceanSayre

Duuuude don’t do it. U know how ppl get so arrogant when deathcast doesn’t call? Like they can do anything in the world? Guess

what. You can’t do anything. You can’t even kill yourself when deathcast is out of the picture. I went skydiving and jumped

out of the plane without my instructor and I felt FREE plummeting to my death but the dude DOVE DOWN AND SAVED ME. It was

like a spy movie. I’ll tell u something. Ur time will come. Mine too. IDK when and I’ll never know when because I never signed

back up for death-cast, but I feel better not knowing. Quit Death-Cast, don’t quit Death-Cast, that’s ur choice. U can sign

back up later if u want. Just give life another chance.

Christi_Jenkins

I lost my true love on the first day of Death-Cast. William was going to propose in Times Square but instead of becoming my fiancé he became the first Decker to die in the history of the world. Some masked man (WHO STILL HASN’T BEEN IDENTIFIED OR CAUGHT!!!) shot him in the throat and then William died in my arms. If you watched that TV show GRIM MISSED CALLS then you’ll know William’s story because the first episode was about him. I get that it was too late to call him, but William was only killed in the first place because his murderer saw Death-Cast as a sign of the apocalypse and went crazy. There’s so much blood on Joaquin Rosa’s hands. Beginning with William’s. Some of mine too. Every way I could hurt myself, I did. Every day that Death-Cast was celebrated for not fucking up, I hurt myself even more. I hate Death-Cast with my whole heart and I’ve never looked back on canceling that piece of shit service. Do people really believe that Death-Cast has only failed twelve people in TEN YEARS? That they’ve had a PERFECT record and ONLY ONE DAY where things went wrong? COME ON! Open your eyes, people. The Death Guard is right that we can’t trust Death-Cast. Look at how much freewill you’ve lost. I don’t want you to die, StillHere6790, but I want you to live without Death-Cast. Set yourself free, get an old-school therapist (they’re usually more pro-natural), and don’t let Death-Cast get in your way ever again.

I haven’t watched any episodes of Grim Missed Calls , but after reading Christi’s response here, I’m not surprised that the woman whose life partner became the first dead Decker

has now become a pro-naturalist.

I keep scrolling, stopping at a comment from a moderator, expecting her to shut this whole thing down, but she’s actually

weighing in.

DeirdreClayton (Moderator)

Hi, StillHere6790. I’m Deirdre Clayton, I created Edge-of-the-Deck as a resource for those who are struggling with suicidal thoughts. I encourage you to reach out to a professional or a friend or neighbor, but I understand that you may not go that route so I just want to say that you can talk to us. I’m a survivor of multiple suicide attempts. I used to work at Make-A-Moment where I was tending to Deckers all the time and I was so jealous of them. There were many times I wanted to prove Death-Cast wrong, and one day, I removed Death-Cast from the equation so I could feel that freedom again. I wanted to make a choice without knowing that I would fail. I won’t get into the specifics of how I was planning on taking my life, but before I could try, a woman saved me. All she did was listen, which knowing her now couldn’t have been easy because that woman loves talking, but I finally felt connected to someone who heard how brokenhearted I was living in this world. Now I’m choosing to ground myself in this world. I signed back up for Death-Cast. I’m growing my life and nourishing my heart with a lot of self-love. I’m even building a life with this woman who makes me happy every day I’m not a Decker. I’m spending my life saving others because no matter what dreams of ours may come true, I’m aware that we will still have those painful moments where we hope Death-Cast calls. Know that we will always be here to help you walk away from the edge of that deck. Sending you love, StillHere6790, and I hope your name is true for many years to come.

If StillHere6790 is anything like me, they’re not gonna get any comfort about how they might discover the will to live once someone saves them. Why can’t life just not suck so much that people wanna die? I don’t know how many lives Deirdre Clayton and her site have saved, but I’m betting she just drove the last nail in StillHere6790’s coffin after bragging about her love story.

I’m reading through other people’s uncertainties for canceling Death-Cast when a loud buzz scares me. It’s just the washing

machine, but my antidepressants got me jumpy. I set the laptop on the couch and go down the hall to dry my load. Scratch that,

I have to run another cycle because there are still streaks of red on the soggy sheets. The bloodstains are faint, but they’re

clear enough that Mom or Rolando will notice if they do my laundry. I’m pouring in extra bleach when the front door opens

and Mom walks in. My heart is racing, like she’s about to catch me cleaning up a crime scene. I’m quick to swap the bleach

for detergent and pour it in, accidentally overflowing the little compartment.

“Hi, Pazito,” Mom says as she sets down her tote bag and slides out of her Crocs.

I close the washing machine door and set it to start before walking out into the living area. “Hi, Mom. Why are you home so

early?” I bet she wanted to check on me.

Mom sighs as she sits on the couch, right next to my laptop—my laptop that’s still open to Edge-of-the-Deck. One look to her left and I’m caught. She’ll get concerned and make sure I’m never home alone again. I already start prepping a lie about how I was reading up on people who started businesses for the Death-Cast generation and then decided to check out Deirdre Clayton’s site. But Mom doesn’t look at my laptop because she’s not looking at anything as she closes her eyes like she’s in pain or something.

“My boss sent me home,” Mom says.

“Why?” I ask as I sit between her and my laptop, shutting it closed.

“Not feeling well. I think I have food poisoning.”

“What did you eat?”

“I brought leftovers from the other night, the tuna and egg salad.”

I mean, that sounds like a risk on any day, but leftovers? Dangerous. I hate that Mom ate that salad to save money. Rolando

better come home with a job so my mom can have only fresh food for the rest of her life. I really wish I was a movie star

with a crazy bank account so I could buy Mom a bigger house and nicer car and hire her a private chef and just spoil her like

she deserves.

I saw on the news today that Death-Cast is running a lottery on their ten-year anniversary, where entrants can win lifetime subscriptions to the service. All I could think about is how Mom will have to cancel my subscription soon. Between saving money on my mental health and not having to pay $900 a year for my Death-Cast subscription, Mom is gonna be able to buy the things that she needs: shoes that are as comfortable as Crocs but nicer, like the ones I’ve seen her looking at online; a new mattress so she won’t wake up with back problems; dinner dates at decent restaurants; a gardener who can tend to the backyard, where she can grow fresh food; and a beautiful wedding dress that makes me sad to think about, since I won’t be around to walk her down the aisle in December.

The best thing I can do for Mom is just die.

“Can I get you anything?” I ask.

“Do we still have ginger carrot soup?”

I check our kitchen cabinet, where we still have a ton of soup that Rolando panic-bought during the COVID lockdown. I find

the last can of ginger carrot soup, and while it’s heating up in the microwave, I can’t help but sneak the can’s sharp lid

into my bedroom to cut myself later. I come back out and bring Mom a tray with her bowl of soup and water in her favorite

tumbler.

“Thank you, Pazito.”

“No problem. I’ll be in my room if you need anything else.”

“Keep me company? I promise I’m not contagious.”

I remember all the times Mom has been at my side whenever I was sick. Not just the physical stuff when I had fevers and stomach issues, but the mental stuff too, like how she refused to leave my side when I was admitted to the hospital, even with the doctors warning her that a forty-nine-year-old like herself would have tougher odds surviving COVID if she caught it while hanging around. Mom was willing to die if taking care of me was the last thing she did. It’s that kind of love why I should tell her that I need to be alone in my room or some other lie so I can keep severing our bond before I die. So that she can remember all the times that I wasn’t there for her and she still turned out to be okay. But I just can’t. Maybe it’s the extra antidepressants working hard to suppress my self-destructive, go-break-a-heart impulses, but I can’t leave Mom’s side.

“Totally, Mom,” I say, grabbing my laptop and sitting beside her on the couch.

There’s a light in Mom’s eyes, and it breaks my heart how happy she is to be near me. I try not to recognize the reality of

what will actually happen once I’m dead at the end of the month—how Mom will mourn me for the rest of her life, even if the

rest of her life is just days as she makes good on her promise to kill herself after I do.