Note: This is a pretty experimental attempt after ninety minutes of playing around with something that jumped right out of my head. I hope you enjoy reading this story anyway - it's not particularly complete (it's very short for one thing), but you know.

I experienced my first manic depressive episode in the prime of my teenage years, but luckily I was able to dig dig dig right into the spiritual mush of my brain. With a bit of excessive watering through my college years though, the seeds of this started to grow, at first representing nothing more than a one-off panic attack, but eventually blooming into a marathon of suicidal thoughts. I can't deny that as an unhappy, psychotic once neurotic, essentially unable young man, I was a pretty decent gardener. But, no, like what you're thinking as you read this note, you can't bring everything down to metaphors, as "creative" as it may be. I shudder to myself sometimes.

But not anymore, as I tell this story on the last day of my life, and that is no mere prediction. I am dressed in the finest suit I could ever think of affording: an open wool number lacking in tie, perfect for my performance here tonight. Years or even months ago, I would never have expected to have this situation set up right in front of me, so I'm looking to present myself in an above average fashion. My hair is tied back and it feels more stylish than ever as I run my hand through the straight strands, picking up an unusual amount of dampness for the situation. The stage curtain is directly in front of me and as it lifts itself mechanically, I step onto the stage with my hands in my pockets and an exaggerated Buster Keaton expression forced onto my face. The small studio audience clap. The rest of the studio seems blurry.

But this story is very quickly getting ahead of itself. It would be more interesting if I told you about myself or at least, my life after college, when my rut was at its extreme. It just provides some back story so you don't walk out on me like I walked out on One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest in an effort to stem an anxious weed. I had moved back in with my mother. In reality I moved back in with both of my parents, but my father had made it house policy for him to dive from the nearest window whenever I was to walk into the same room as him, so it seemed as though it was just me and Ma. The one time I did manage to catch my father was in the front room as he sat by the neatly compiled fire with a bottle of whisky in his left hand. We glanced at each other, and as he turned his stare to an invisible object to my right, he muttered, "That's a good job there son. A good job.", the same words he rented to me on the day I left for college. He poured his whisky into a glass on the nearby table, and I regretfully let him be. I attempted to hang myself that night, but I've never been good with knots.

My mother tended to find my attempted nooses amongst the balls of paper littered around my room, a room which was once welcoming to me with screenshots from my favourite films and photographs dotting the wall, but at this point acted as a dated shell. As I beat myself, I concluded that convicts with over twenty years of experience on the inside would have a tough time adjusting to the chamber, though I admit to never really playing interior designer and sprucing up the place. My mother always pretended never to find the nooses I'd made, even when I left them in plain view after an unsuccessful night, in order to gauge her reaction. She never said anything to me, though I believe I could hear sounds through the wall which could've been shrieks of laughter or sobs of emotional pain. To be frank, it could've been either. Maybe it was both.

In college I had studied the art of writing, particularly the art of writing for comedy, intended for performance by me or someone in my trust. I was burned out on day one of the first year. Comedy is a real fertiliser for depression. I was instructed by every last one of my tutors to write from personal experience, and I argued that this in fact gave me limited options seeing as how this made me a cliché in the eyes of them all. After reviewing some of my drafts, one tutor laughed through his spectacles and sighed, "These would probably more appropriate in the medical science department.", as his laugh slowed down and his face took on a more serious character before quickly handing my short portfolio back to me. It was usually either medical science or cliché: I got two types of feedback from anything I could come up with and right now I'm starting to stagger around the garden trying to remember, so I'll try to move on.

Nevertheless I had taken the lesson of writing from personal experience on board, and I figured that anything I write in a darkly comical way about my social phobias, my tendency to attempt suicide four or five times a week, my complete dissatisfaction with my mother's cooking amongst ever other little piece of pain in my life, could be pushed right into a quick script starring me trying to help people with suicidal feelings.

At this point my mind is getting hazy, even though it seems as if these events were only happening minutes ago in identically hazy moods. I personally blame the mix-up of chemicals in my brain forcing me to rethink things due to my general misfortune in life. At this stage, things don't seem so vivid, which explains my train of thought in this story and the structure. Apologies to those reading this, but if you knew me, you probably knew what you were getting in to.

After a few months of writing basic scripts, doodling my long-dead cat as a superhero fighting a team consisting of Hitler, Mao and the sadistic Jerry from the Tom And Jerry cartoon shorts, my mother stealthily yet noticeably poking her head down the hall at my room, I decided to take a challenge with the local TV branch. I wrote a quick draft about Donald Mathews, a therapist who makes "deals" with pissed off spirits of high school students who had committed suicide. It was largely played for laughs, though some of the references and the style itself may be lost in the process. My fondness for vampires in particular was also evident.

I approached a team of three smartly dressed people who were constantly wriggling their pens on little pieces of paper, two men and one woman in a conservatively long black dress. We were in a low-grade office, a concoction of cheap paintwork, stale cigarettes and after-hour tears. I felt uncomfortable, but maybe that's because I was being reviewed by television people. They taught us at college that it happens to everyone, though I suspect I was at a disadvantage in learning how to cope. The first man, blondie, looked up at me to speak.
"We've read through your scripts Mr. Michaels, and...", he trailed off and looked back down at his desk. The second man, silver haired, looked up and spoke to complete the first man's sentence. They always talked one at a time, as if that were the universal rule of this situation.
"We believe that suicide is a bit of cliché." he put it bluntly. I was a little surprised, my look showed it. The woman spoke up,
"Do you believe that you could write anything more to real life?"
"Well... miss, madam, miss, I do try to put life experience in, it was my... real specialty, James the vampire nerd bullied by the basketball team aside-"
"We're not saying it's garbage." said blondie, which was odd because I wasn't thinking that at all. "We're just saying that suicide is unrealistic."
"We've spoken to the television watchers of today..." started Silver.
"Not directly." the woman added, as if it were necessary by looking at me.
"The viewers don't want unrealistic things. They want things they can relate to, like celebrities exhibiting their talents or hard-hitting, yet non-lethal cynicism."
"Are you guys all there?" I burst out suddenly.

I was really not surprised that I found myself with an opportunity to get on television in the end, unaware of what was going on, given what happened recently in my life and how my life had pulled itself along without me realising it. I picked up a script I had been given in my private room (and it was marked with my name) for what I was informed was a pilot. I questioned the function of pilots in today's world in my mind, but for once I was particularly pleased with myself. My joy blossomed once I read of the plot to this first episode. I didn't deny this thing would be a hit, and I don't deny it now as I stand here facing the audience and their hopeful faces, lest they don't receive the treatment they came here for.

A camera is aimed directly at my face. I am well rehearsed in my bit here tonight, explicitly different from the usual dramedy you would expect out of me. The humour in my script is really quite incredible, and I'm unsure as to how I could come up with something so genius without suffering for it later via a headache or some sort of infection. I shuffled forward in the now silent studio, to a few giggles. The lights brightened themselves slightly. I have not changed my style since I set foot on this stage. I clear my throat.

"Somebody shoot me." I mutter, and the audience applauds and balloons fall from the ceiling and the sound people insert an effect similar to what you might hear in an arcade when you win on one of the more traditional offerings. My mouth slowly increases in size to form a grin without bearing any teeth, and I reach around inside my left suit pocket to pull out my handgun to shoot myself in the head.

I wasn't there to see the show, but it was apparently the most authentic suicide ever recorded in the area. My only regret is that the show did not go out live, and I was disappointed that the studio never got back to me on the audience's response.