I grip the railing. The metal is so cold it almost burns my palms. After a moment, I start to swing a leg over it.

Nobody will miss me, Jessica had said.

Nobody will miss me, either.

But...

I miss her, don't I? I wanted to know more about her. I wanted to know what made her sound as lonely as I am.

I pull back from the railing and step away. My heart is racing.

Even though I feel like I'm going to be sick, I manage to jog home without the added embarrassment. The second I'm through the door and in my room, I turn on music from my computer and crank up the volume as though the lonely lyrics of John Lennon will somehow drown out my thoughts.

I pull open an internet browser and, after staring at it for awhile, I type in the only thing I can think of.

What's it like to die?

The number of results that pop up is overwhelming. I could read twenty pages worth and not even put a dent in it. No one's answer is quite the same. Some say it's peaceful. Like falling asleep. 'Suffocating, terrifying,' others say. 'The feeling of being dragged out of your own body...'

Nestled amongst the many windows I've opened of blog entries, spiritual websites, and new-age crap, is a site I must've clicked on by accident. There's nothing remarkable about its front page. No explanation as to what it is. Only a request to login, and a black and white logo that reads:

Suicide Watch

I click on the image. At the top is a short blurb:

Welcome to Suicide Watch. This site is not for the faint of heart. Only the serious need apply. Please think carefully prior to filling out the registration form and submitting.

I'm wondering what they mean by only the serious when I scroll down to the registration questions. Name, email address, city and state...

My heart lodges in my throat. This? This is some kind of scam. It has to be. It's some bleeding-heart group that reels in potential suicide victims and tries to fix them. They nab all the depressed high school kids who want to down a bottle of pills and contact their parents, I'll bet. Except they aren't asking for much info. Not even a last name. Just a first name, vague location, and an email address.

There have to be twenty guys named Vincent in Hillsdale, on this side of the bridge alone. Besides, who would they call? The only person in my life who would have cared will be six feet under by the time the sun goes down.

Before I realize it, I've filled in the registration form. Why? Am I seriously, honestly considering this? I don't know, but I think I might be. I tried explaining to Maggie once that either I feel nothing at all, or everything at once. There is no happy medium with me, and it makes everything so hard. I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know that I want to die. The entire idea seems so overdramatic and stupid. And maybe it isn't that I want to die, exactly.