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It all began on a Friday afternoon. One of those sunny afternoons that was too beautiful to complain about and too silent to admire. Looking back, I think that silence might have been the problem. Chris, and Tom, and Lucy, and Susan all placed on a platform, told to be lovely and loved but never taught how.

If you looked closely you could see that they were different than anyone else. They were loners, rebels, if you will. They were special. They sparkled but never quite faded like the rest of the world's stars. And, in the perfect act of rebellion, they hated it. They hated what it did to them, what it made them, who they were when they weren't themselves.

Chris was the oldest; he was also the one that made the suggestion on that Friday afternoon, while they were studying for an Algebra II final and drinking lemonade at Tom's house. No one had responded then. No one had showed signs of hearing him or acknowledged the punctual tone of the words. No one had disturbed their silence.

A few days later though, as they collected their things and rounded the bend to Lucy's room to prepare for their History final she spoke up, "I was...thinking about it, you know. Wondering if anyone else had thought about it too. Because maybe...I know a guy" her voice ended up softer and seemed emptier than it had ever before.

Me too...not the guy but...thought about it. Especially after you said something. I think that maybe...yea...let's do it" Tom trailed off.

"Yea...let's" Susan finished staring wide-eyed back and forth between the rest of them.

Chris just nodded his head and they continued on in silence again. They didn't make any plans or set a date. Simply decided to do it whenever the timing felt right...perfect.

Lucy contacted the man she knew and carried a bag filled with Phenobarbital around with her until a humid day in June after they had gotten their grades and awards and attended a beautiful dance in a golden lined ball room to celebrate with all of their admirers. All of the students that never quite befriended them but always seemed to be there when something was going right.

That was the perfect day, it seemed. The day after Chris had been studying a blue jay that had laid her eggs right outside his window and Lucy was petting Chris' cat on the bed and Susan drawing next to Tom who was reading The Pigman on the floor. It seemed perfectly ordinary in everyway. Four friends that had known eachother since they were two and now found themselves seventeen with bright futures in business and law and medicine ahead of them. People that found themselves admired for their worthy accomplishments wherever they turned and surrounded by meaningless other people that would do anything to make them happy or comfortable.

Four people that had everything anyone else would ever want yet constantly tried to pass it off on everyone else. Hand it to brothers and sisters and parents and friends on silver platters lined with what could be called love. Tried to give it away because it was cold to them, worthless and freezing. Because it stiffened their fingers just to hold on to it for longer than necessary. But their friends would always realize how cold it was...and always return it...they knew the truth too. The world was cold. Below freezing, even. And they didn't want to hold onto it anymore than the rest of the world.

Yes, it was the perfect day on a Tuesday in June when Chris' mother brought them glasses of raspberry lemonade and four long spoons to stir in more sugar. It was the perfect day to say good-bye for four long-time friends placed up on their platform and held at an arm's length from the world. Four people that viewed everything from behind a nameless scholarship or college recruit and were never really able to gaze back upon the cold glare of the world.

They were the kings and queens of their time. And they did not know if their reign would be the last or only the first of a long line. All they knew was that the world, and everything it produced, was cold. And they were sick of touching it. They wanted to be warm again.

They debated on that Tuesday whether or not to leave individual notes and decided against it. If the world couldn't understand why then, well, fuck it, they didn't deserve to know.

Lucy dropped some of the Phenobarbital into each of their glasses and Tom pulled out some of his official stationary with the West Point letterhead printed neatly at the top and scrawled out their final statement to the world.

"Dear World, You are cold. We don't want you anymore. Goodbye. Chris, Tom, Susan, and Lucy. PS-we feel our peers should look towards suicide as a form of self-expression"

They called down to Chris' mother to keep the rest of the night in perfect silence so they could prepare their graduation speech. Then they sipped down their raspberry lemonade and kissed eachother good-bye. Sometime around ten the next morning Chris' parents walked in and found them like that, Chris and Lucy on the bed with the cat curled at their feet and Susan with her head in Tom's lap, his hand gently stroking her hair in his last movements.

Chris' mother touched his fingers softly, the fingers that had once traced shapes on her back and typed out award winning essays and articles and millions of things that were now only memories of what he never wanted. And she sobbed. Loudly and yet still it was silent and sterile and cold.

We all noticed it, the freezing temperature of the world as the news cameras arrived and the women with red lipstick on their teeth flatly said their names and read and re-read their suicide note over the airwaves in our city.

The news of their ritual suicide made national television a week later after seventy-eighty other teen suicides were reported in our tri-state area. In the next four weeks three hundred ninety-seven others were found in garages and bedrooms and hotels and libraries and parks. All dead. All gone. All warm.

"In the month since the group suicide of Amberdeen's four most successful students nearly four hundred suicides have been reported nationwide. The note left behind by the students addressed their peers saying that suicide should be looked on as a form of self-expression. An over-whelming number of twenty-two suicides were reported the day the note was read aloud on Amberdeen's twelve o'clock news. We are here today to set the record straight. Suicide is not a form of self-expression. It is-"

I shut of my television then with a chuckle. All those years politics and the media had ignored the youth of America and now here they begging them not to off themselves. Begging them not to see the freezing cold of the world. Desperately pleading with them to find some other way...to not be selfish, to make the whole world warm...not just their own.