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Connor is a bad person. He knows he is. He’s hurt his family, hurt himself, Jesus, he’s done a number on himself if the lines running up and down his arms count for anything. But no, Connor has really hurt his family. He hurt his sister trying to break down her door, completely strung out on cocaine, saying he’d kill her for what? He didn’t even remember. All he remembered was coming to his senses when his dad had him pinned to the floor. Apparently his mother couldn’t hold him back, he’d gotten too big to do that anymore.
He’s been off his meds for years because his parents decided that since they weren’t working then, that they’d never work, so no more Prozac for Connor. He didn’t know what exactly was wrong with him. He remembered a file that had sat next to the phone and he probably wasn’t supposed to read it, but he had anyways. Borderline Personality Disorder. Manic. Showing signs of self mutilating behavior. Possibly definitely suicidal. Connor had met with a therapist a total of 3 times before getting put on medication and then taken off and forgotten about forever. It had been confirmed that Connor wasn't the only problem, but the mental illness as well. But the problem had never really gone away, had it?
Nope, it’d just gotten worse, especially with Connor self medicating so heavily. He didn’t like being sober. Ever. He didn’t like flipping between being too brain dead to feel anything or bubbling over like a pot on the stove and actively trying to tear out of his own skin. He didn’t want to feel responsible for when he inevitably hurt more people. So he kept on turning to weed, coke, Xanax, Oxy, anything to make him stop thinking. The only way to keep him tame was to drug him like an animal. Someone ought to put him down already.
Hey, he could do that.
Connor had made his mind up to kill himself right after the first day of school. He was crazy. Everyone knew he was crazy, hell, Evan Hansen was trying to get a rise out of him now. He was the kid who Connor was sure was mute until the 3rd grade and broke his arm climbing a tree. If a kid like that wanted to see him break, then Connor had to be a fucking monster. He locked himself in his room, spent the whole night popping pills and hoping if he kept on with one pill after the other, he would just pass out and die. But he didn’t. He woke up sometime the next day with a killer headache. It was really quiet in the house. Zoe was at school. His parents were letting him miss school? Connor wasn’t exactly afraid to go downstairs, but he knew if he was still home then he must have slept through threats to shave his head and send him to military school.
What was he supposed to do now?
He was really thirsty, so he crept across the hallway to get some water from the tap in the bathroom. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He looked awful. He was breaking out (half of it was due to his horrible habit of picking at his skin), his hair was a mess, and he looked run down, like he hadn’t slept in a week. He could fix one of those things. Maybe two if he could get it right this time. He finger combed his hair and filled a Dixie cup with water while he debated whether or not to just put it up in a bun or something. Connor was about to die, did it really matter? Did he even want to look good for that? He wasn’t going to bother with changing clothes so he went back to his room and reached into his pockets for a final cigarette. His hand brushed against a piece of paper, fuck, it was that letter that Evan wrote. Fucking freak. Whatever. He didn’t want Zoe to see it because apparently he still cared so he’d keep it in his pocket and not like, throw it away in the trash next to his desk or something. He thought about if there were any loose ends he needed to tie up as he locked the door and lit that cigarette. There really weren’t any, he decided, dragging his desk chair and wedging it under the door handle. He wanted to buy himself a little time. So he wouldn’t have to see their faces if they ran up and heard him. Thank god Zoe was at school. He didn’t like the thought of her seeing him dead. Did he want to leave a note?
‘Dear Mom and Dad and Zoe, I’m sorry for being such a huge fuck up, go live your life now that your horrible mistake a son is gone.’
No, he didn’t care enough to write a note. He didn't have the energy or the words for it. He doubt they’d want one, either. It’s not like he mattered enough. He didn’t matter enough for therapy, for medication, for interventions, for even getting a 'how was your day at school, Connor’. His death would be a relief to them. He'd finally be out of their hair for good. So that's what he was going to do, die. He went back to his stash under his bed. Overdosing was a good way to go. He wasn’t gonna be a pussy this time and go slowly, he had to do it all at once or it wouldn’t work. Connor was going to die. He felt strangely calm. He was at peace with what he was about to do. The light was shining through his window that illuminated all the dust in the air and it occurred to him that Connor wasn’t usually in his room at this point in the day. He was so tired. He wanted all of this to stop, end of the line, Connor Murphy had run his course. This was it.
Bye.
He put his cigarette out on the windowsill, watched a leaf fall to the ground from a tree outside, and swallowed an entire bottle of painkillers.