I'm writing this letter to explain my suicide. I hope that will ease the minds of those who care about me, because I know I'm supposed to care. You who are close to me know what I mean, but I'll explain for the police. Three years ago, mid-February I think, someone somewhere fired a gun in a random direction and the bullet went through my brain. This didn't bother me at the time. At first I figured that was shock, but it was probably the start of the rest of my life. See, I only kind of survived.

A new me walked out of the hospital. Someone who didn't feel anything. I remembered being happy and sad, but not what those felt like. I never felt joy at making someone smile, or guilt at making them upset. It should have freaked me out, but naturally it didn't.

I'm broken. It doesn't bother me. It's a lot of work to keep track of what I should be feeling and pretending to do that. The longer it's been, the harder it is. I can't keep it up. And if the other choice is going full-on sociopath, I figure I'm better off dead.