A lot of thought goes into killing yourself. You don't just do it suddenly. The feelings, the want and need to escape; none of it just suddenly hits you. It happens slowly.
First come the feelings. You're sad and you sometimes don't understand why. You get irritated easy. You pull away from people because they just make it worse, but being alone makes it worse too.
Then you start thinking, analyzing. You see your imperfections, the problems in your life, the way it all effects you, how people treat you, how you treat yourself.
Then the other thoughts come. The ones that aren't really under your control. They tell you things you don't want to hear, make you hate people you shouldn't hate, do things you shouldn't do. But, that voice also becomes the only one you'll listen too, because it's the only one that's always there.
Then you start doing physical things to block out the mental and emotion pain. You just want it to stop, and nothing works. The methods that do, well... People will stamp you with labels for using them. Crazy. attention whore. Stupid. Troubled.
Soon you believe them and your want to survive diminishes. You try so hard, but that's not enough for them, and soon, it's not enough for you either. You decide you need to escape one way or another, because you just can't take it anymore.
That's when the reasoning begins. You start looking for excuses to do it. Reasons for why you should go, as though you need some sort of justification for why you're doing it, just so they don't stick one last label on you.
After that comes the planning. Where will you do it? How will you do it?
...... When will you do it?
When all is decided, and you have your plan, and you know this is it. You're ready to go. You still have one last thing you consider doing. Although, it's not always a necessity, some like to avoid it altogether, understandably. The world is shit, sometimes people don't deserve even that.
The note.
Ah, yes. The infamous suicide note. Sometimes they are comforting, sometimes they are sad, some angry, and some desperate.
Mine? I didn't leave one. It's not because I thought no one deserved one, I just knew there was no one who would want one. No one who'd care enough to really read it anyway.

See, this is the thing about suicide. It doesn't kill you, because it is merely an idea. sadness is the murderer and it doesn't just do it all at once. It tears you apart bit by bit until you're alone and weak and exhausted and vulnerable. Then, when you're hanging on by that last frayed string, it hands you the knife.

And I don't need to tell you what happens next.

My name is Damien St.Clair. Son to Charlotte and Anthony St.Clair. My mother, a fashion designer for a new up and rising label. My father, a hard ass lawyer who hasn't lost a case in years. Both always coming and going, leaving on business trips, only to return long enough to have a few fancy dinner's and play up the perfect family thing, before leaving again.
Then there's me. Their show dog. The perfect son, with good looks, great manners and perfect grades. No exceptions. Everything is about appearances after all.
Although, let me tell you, looks can be deceiving. My parents are not the golden power couple they portray, in fact I'm pretty sure they haven't shared a bed since I was a little kid. My dad's always drinking when he's home, pretending my mother isn't sleeping with some young twenty something from the office.
In retrospect, having money, decent popularity, parents gone a lot. It sounds like the perfect set up for a seventeen year old guy. That may be true, if that's the kind of seventeen year old I was.
I began planning one year, four months, one week and five days ago. I figured out my reasons and my excuses. I decided my where, how and when.
When it came down to that final decision, like I said, I didn't leave a note. No one would read that. It's not enough to make anyone understand the true pain I felt. No, instead, I wrote a story. My story to be exact.

So, in the fashion of the first stories we are ever told, I will begin with; Once upon a time.