I was 13 when I first tried to kill myself. The orphaned son of a dead drug dealer and an incarcerated illiterate, I grew up knowing nothing but neglect and abuse. I was on my third foster home in nine months when I first tried. Wolfing down a handful of Tylenol, I had no idea what I was doing.
I survived this attempt, but only after spending 72 hours in a locked psychiatric facility. A locked psychiatric facility that was about as therapeutic as a supermax prison. But after three days of being force fed antipsychotics and raw-raw bullshit, I was released and kicked to the curb with little more than some cool new grippy socks.
I would go on to repeat this process five more times over the course of the next three years. Something would happen, I would hit a breaking point, attempt suicide, survive, be hospitalized, institutionalized, and then released with next to no resources. But it’s my fault, not the systems, right?
Fast forward three years and I downed an entire bottle of Klonopin after Leon, my boyfriend of 11 months, dumped me. A beautiful blonde brainiac from Bossier City, he was the only family I ever had. He was the only person who had ever given a shit about me. So, when he told me that I was “suffocating” him and that he needed a “break”, I lost it. Only this time was different. This time when I was released from the psych ward, I found a flyer in my discharge paperwork. A blue and white flyer with the numbers “988” printed on it in bright orange ink.
For those of you unfamiliar with 988, it is a federally funded mental health support system specifically designed to help individuals in crisis. People can call and or text and receive one-on-one support from trained professionals. In other words, it’s a new and improved version of the infamous “suicide hotline”.
I took the flyer and carefully tucked it away in my most prized possession: a tattered copy of Giovanni’s Room that I had stolen from the Shreveport library back in 6th grade. I know, could I be anymore cliche? Here it sat for months, gathering dust as I tried to piece my life back together. But then because I am a mentally ill gay kid in the deep south, I lost it again. Only this time instead of reaching for a pill bottle or tying a noose, I tried something new.
My hands shook as I punched the numbers into my phone. 9-8-8. Now I knew whoever answered wasn’t going to be able to magically fix me. There aren’t enough shrinks in the entire world to do that. But all I wanted was someone to talk to. Someone to care.
The phone rang twice before a loud beep cut in.
“I’m sorry, the number you dialed is no longer in service. But if you would like to hear how many F-15 fighter jets the United States sent Israel last month, please press one now.”
I felt the weight of the phone hang heavy in my hand. Did I really just hear that right? Did they really just say what I think they said?
I hung up and tried again.
“I’m sorry, the number you dialed is no longer in service. But if you would like to hear how many Javelin anti-tank missile systems the United States sent Ukraine last week, please press two now.”
Confused, I checked my phone. Maybe I had dialed the wrong number? Or accidently hit an incorrect extension? But the numbers “988” stared back up at me. Weird.
I tried again.
“I’m sorry, the number you dialed is no longer in service. But if you would like to hear how much money billionaires saved on tax breaks last quarter, please press three now.”
“What the hell?” I cursed out loud.
A burning sense of frustration began to bubble up inside of me.
I tried a fourth time.
“I’m sorry, the number you dialed is no longer in service. But if you would like to hear how much DOGE cut from your Medicaid plan, please press four now.”
I could feel the muscles in my jaw beginning to quiver. I was clenching so hard I was afraid I might break a tooth.
I tried a fifth time.
“I’m sorry, the number you dialed is no longer in service. But if you would like to hear the annual operating budget for ICE, please press five now.”
All I wanted was someone to talk to. All I wanted was for someone to care. Was that too much to ask?
I tried a sixth time.
“I’m sorry, the number you dialed is no longer in service. But if you would like to hear how many veterans died by suicide last week, please press six now.”
A sharp pain began to radiate across my chest. This couldn’t be happening. This couldn’t be real. What kind of sick joke was this?
A seventh time.
“I’m sorry, the number you dialed is no longer in service. But if you would like to hear how many millions of dollars Senator Rick Scott and Congresswoman Nancy Pelosi made in investments last month, please press seven now.”
Fat tears began to well up in my eyes. I had always known that I was all alone, but now it was obvious. Insultingly obvious. And the one resource that was designed specifically for people like me, the one resource that was intended to never be unattended, was out of service. Slashed to death by government budget cuts.
I officially had no one.
“I’m sorry, the number you dialed is no longer in service. But if you would like….”
No family, no friends, no loved ones.
“I’m sorry, the number you dialed is no longer in service. But if you would like…”
No one at all.
“I’m sorry, the number you dialed is no longer in service. But if you would like…”
All because some politician wanted to buy another yacht.
“I’m sorry, the number you dialed is no longer in service. But if you would like…”
Wanted to buy a bigger lake house.
“I’m sorry, the number you dialed is no longer in service. But if you would like…”
Wanted to buy more power.
“I’m sorry, the number you dialed is no longer in service. But if you would like…”
So, with nowhere left to turn.
“I’m sorry, the number you dialed is no longer in service. But if you would like…”
I finally fixed the problem.
“I’m sorry, the number you dialed is no longer in service. But if you would like…”
I finally gave them the ending they always wanted.
“I’m sorry, the number you dialed is no longer in service. But if you would like…”
I have to agree with Cornconic here. A lot of your stories lean on folkloric twists to real tragedies. That approach isn’t inherently bad, many strong works have done it well, but it demands a masterfully delicate touch with tone, prose, and messaging. But in your case, the style you write in just doesn’t mesh with that subject matter. Your tone often feels disjointed, and instead of building emotion through character and plot, you tend to insert real-world issues in a way that comes across as borrowing the reader’s existing feelings about those events rather than creating new ones within the story. At times it reads less like horror and more like propaganda built on trauma. That said, I disagree with Cornconic about the effort applied. To me it does seem like you’re trying, just that the effort is misdirected. In my opinion, your straightforward, declarative style might work far better in horror built around “creature in the woods” setups or “accidental discoveries”. Regardless, they’d be far better off without the baggage of real tragedies weighing them down.
Corny and bad and reads like it was AI-generated. It’s not even that I really disagree with you on a lot of the problems mentioned here or your overall message; it’s just that this is such a clumsy, rhetorically front-loaded take on horror fiction that it doesn’t even qualify as a creepypasta really. It’s moreso an essay where you list things you don’t like about current events in bullet-point formatting. One of which seemed to indicate that sending military aid to Ukraine is bad, holding it in comparison to sending aid to Israel? So is just the concept itself worth condemning? No differentiation has been made between these conflicts happening a thousand miles apart from each other. It’s evident from your previous story, in which you grossly warp and dramatise the October 7th massacre into a narrative justifying Israeli war crimes and portraying Palestinians as savage and villainous, that you operate in broad strokes only and possess a misguided, short-sighted understanding of what you’re supposedly preaching to others. Next time try putting some modicum of effort in.
thanks for the comment. I hope your day gets better!