I, anonymous, am so angry at you. People are saying they feel pity for you, and that's exactly what you wanted. You wanted them to care. You wanted attention. So you hung yourself in your shed. You hung yourself where your baby sister would find you, and she'd have to tell your mom and dad. You made her have to scream that you were dead. Why?

I know why. It hurt inside. The never-ending struggle, the way you could never be on top of things, the way nothing ever worked out for you. It ate you up inside, didn't it? It hurt so bad. I know. I know the pain. I know because I was almost you. Almost another statistic. But I didn't have the guts. Guts? What am I saying? You were so afraid; so afraid of asking, so afraid of making the honor-student façade tumble to the ground. SO afraid that if you said the words "I'm hurting," the whole world would think less of you. And now the world will think nothing of you. You will never graduate. Your family name will not be carried on. Guess what, bud? The plan failed. I don't feel sorry for you. I despise you for making us all so disturbed; for causing me to cry buckets. I was almost you. And if I had been, I would have hated me, too.