The day I tried to kill myself it rained. A canopy of sullen clouds shed millions of tears in the dullness of the midafternoon. They dropped onto roofs, spilling over the edges of houses to carry away dust and soot to pool into puddles that kids would later stomp with galoshes. They streamed along gutters and slid into drainpipes and down into sewers—dark places that only dirty water knew.

The afternoon was uncharacteristically chilly for late November in the San Joaquin Valley. I was dressed in a Giants hoodie and jeans, my feet stuffed into Ugg slippers my mother had bought for me the Christmas before. I leaned against the patio slider that led to the backyard, my cheek and hands pressed against the glass pane, wanting to feel the chill that gripped the exterior of the house. I was surrounded by silence, save for drops pinging against the overhead tiles. My mom was at work, and my dad lived in another town.

I plopped onto the sofa to read. Ever since I was a little kid, I found comfort in books. With just the turn of a page, I sailed to far-off lands, rocketed to other planets, jumped to other times and spaces. I witnessed the squabbles of the Greek gods and goddesses and heard the rustling of trees in a poem. I liked being alone more than hanging out or playing soccer. I was the smart kid—a genius, as some of my teachers suspected. I found it difficult to connect with others. I preferred watching people more than interacting with them. I was the sixteen-year-old kid in the distance, a voyeur, who sat on the bleachers with a book, looking up to catch glimpses of the football players. The one whose gaze would follow them as they hurried off to the locker room after practice, imagining what happened in those showers.

I scanned the page of a Stephen King novel. I took in the lines, hoping to fall somewhere into the words, leave the stillness of the house and its empty white walls. I was twelve when my parents divorced, and my mother removed all of the art, all of the knickknacks, all reminders of our previous life as a family.

“Start anew,” she’d said. “That’s what we need. A new start.”

She had the walls painted the color of snow, blurring the lines between bright and barren. She had needed a new start—and she got one. She joined a religious group and bathed herself in sermons and speeches. She never went on dates but instead attended group meetings for Bible study, occasional teas with other women, and, of course, Sunday services. She tied her long dark hair up in a bun and stopped wearing makeup, letting her pale blue eyes be the only color on her square face.

She forced me to attend services with her and, like a reluctant anthropologist, I observed the church folks as they mouthed the words they were taught, sang the songs from their hymn books, and politely shook hands accompanied by a “peace be with you.” She would sometimes ask me how I enjoyed the service and I would shrug and say, “It was okay.”

Perched on the sofa, I looked up at the ceiling and listened to the rain. I’m not sure how much time passed. A few seconds. A minute. A half hour. My mother’s penchant for scented candles was evident in the hint of vanilla that wafted through the house. I closed my eyes, drew a deep breath, and when I looked out at the whiteness of my surroundings once again, I knew it was time. I closed my book and strode to the kitchen, where I pulled a carving knife from a drawer along with the sharpening tool. I ran the blade between the wheels of the tungsten carbide repeatedly. I checked the edge on a tomato. Then I slumped to the floor, my back against the cabinets, and pulled up the sleeves on my hoodie. I drew the knife across my wrists and then up my arms. I’d heard that cutting yourself was painful, that it was a terrible way to die. But I wasn’t scared. Still, the first slice made me wince.

I tossed the knife to the side and looked down. Blood made its exit, streaming along the length of my inner forearm. It seeped from my wrists and I watched as it puddled on the floor like the rain outside. I closed my eyes and recited a poem I’d memorized in the ninth grade.

The day is cold, and dark, and dreary;

It rains, and the wind is never weary;

The vine still clings to the moldering wall,

But at every gust the dead leaves fall.

And the day is dark and dreary.

I paused to savor the words, to let them sink in.

My life is cold, and dark, and dreary;

It rains, and the wind is never weary;

My thoughts still cling to the moldering Past,

But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast,

And the days are dark and dreary.

The steady ping-ping on the roof added to the lines.

Be still, sad heart! and cease repining;

Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;

Thy fate is the common fate of all,

Into each life some rain must fall,

Some days must be dark and dreary.

I smiled.

I opened my eyes to take in the whiteness of the kitchen walls and cabinets one last time. Then the brightness faded until I was swallowed by the dark.