Just two more to go. Don't give up on me now.
I'm sorry. I guess that's an odd thing to say. Because isn't that what I'm
doing? Giving up?
Yes. As a matter of fact, I am. And that, more than anything else, is what
this all comes down to. Me . . . giving up . . . on me.
No matter what I've said so far, no matter who I've spoken of, it all comes
back to—it all ends with—me.
Her voice sounds calm. Content with what she's saying.
Before that party, I'd thought about giving up so many times. I don't know,
maybe some people are just preconditioned to think about it more than others.
Because every time something bad happened, I thought about it.
It? Okay, I'll say it. I thought about suicide.
The anger, the blame, it's all gone. Her mind is made up. The word is not a
struggle for her anymore.
After everything I've talked about on these tapes, everything that occurred,
I thought about suicide. Usually, it was just a passing thought.
I wish I would die.
I've thought those words many times. But it's a hard thing to say out loud.
It's even scarier to feel you might mean it.
But sometimes I took things further and wondered how I would do it. I
would tuck myself into bed and wonder if there was anything in the house I
could use.
A gun? No. We never owned one. And I wouldn't know where to get one.
What about hanging? Well, what would I use? Where would I do it? And
even if I knew what and where, I could never get beyond the visual of
someone finding me—swinging—inches from the floor.
I couldn't do that to Mom and Dad.
So how did they find you? I've heard so many rumors.
It became a sick sort of game, imagining ways to kill myself. And there are
some pretty weird and creative ways.
You took pills. That, we all know. Some say you passed out and drowned
in a bathtub full of water.
It came down to two lines of thinking. If I wanted people to think it was an
accident, I'd drive my car off the road. Someplace where there's no chance of
survival. And there are so many places to do that on the outskirts of town. I've
probably driven by each of them a dozen times in the past couple weeks.
Others say you drew the bathwater, but fell asleep on your bed while it was
filling. Your mom and dad came home, found the bathroom flooded, and
called your name. But there was no answer.
Then there are these tapes.
Can I trust the twelve of you to keep a secret? To not let my parents find
out what really happened? Will you let them believe it was an accident if
that's the story going around?
She pauses.
I don't know. I'm not sure.
She thinks we might tell. She thinks we'll walk up to our friends and say,
"Do you want to know a horrible secret?"
So I've decided on the least painful way possible.
Pills.
My stomach pulls in, wanting to rid my body of everything. Food.
Thoughts. Emotions.
But what kind of pills? And how many? I'm not sure. And I don't have
much time to figure it out because tomorrow . . . I'm going to do it.
Wow.
I sit down on the curb of a dark, quiet intersection.
I won't be around anymore . . . tomorrow.
Most houses on the connecting four blocks give little indication that
anyone is awake inside. A few windows flicker with the faint blue lights of
late-night TV. About a third of them have porch light on. But for the rest,
other than a cut lawn or a car out front, it's hard to tell anyone lives there at
all.
Tomorrow I'm getting up, I'm getting dressed, and I'm walking to the post
office. There, I'll mail a bunch of tapes to Justin Foley. And after that, there's
no turning back. I'll go to school, too late for first period, and we'll have one
last day together. The only difference being that I'll know it's the last day.
You won't.
Can I remember? Can I see her in the halls on that last day? I want to
remember the very last time I saw her.
And you'll treat me how you've always treated me. Do you remember the
last thing you said to me?
I don't.
The last thing you did to me?
I smiled, I'm sure of it. I smiled every time I saw you after that party, but
you never looked up. Because your mind was made up.
If given the chance, you knew you might smile back. And you couldn't.
Not if you wanted to go through with it.
And what was the last thing I said to you? Because trust me, when I said it,
I knew it was the last thing I'd ever say.
Nothing. You told me to leave the room and that was it. You found ways to
ignore me every time after that.
Which brings us to one of my very last weekends. The weekend following
the accident. The weekend of a new party. A party I didn't attend.
Yes, I was still grounded. But that's not the reason I didn't go. In fact, if I
wanted to go, it would've been much easier than last time because I was
house-sitting that weekend. A friend of my father's was out of town and I was
watching his house for him, feeding his dog, and keeping an eye on things
because there was supposed to be a rager a few doors down.
And there was. Maybe not as big as the last party, but definitely not one for
beginners.
Even if I thought you might be there, I still would've stayed home.
With the way you ignored me at school, I assumed you would ignore me
there, too. And that was a theory too painful to prove.
I've heard people say that after a particularly bad experience with tequila,
just the smell of it can make them barf. And while this party didn't make me
barf, just being near it—just hearing it—twisted my stomach into knots.
One week was nowhere near enough time to get over that last party.
The dog was going crazy, yapping every time someone walked by the
window. I would crouch down, yelling at him to get away from there, but was
too afraid to go over and pick him up—too afraid someone might see me and
call my name.
So I put the dog in the garage, where he could yap all he wanted.
Wait, I remember it now. The last time I saw you.
The bass thumping down the block was impossible to shut out. But I tried. I
ran through the house, closing curtains and twisting shut every blind I could
find.
I remember the last words we said to each other.
Then I hid myself in the bedroom with the TV blasting. And even though I
couldn't hear it, I could feel the bass pumping inside of me.
I shut my eyes, tight. I wasn't watching the TV anymore. I wasn't in that
room anymore. I could only think back to that closet, hiding inside it with a
pile of jackets surrounding me. And once again, I started rocking back and
forth, back and forth. And once again, no one was around to hear me cry.
In Mr. Porter's English class, I noticed your desk was empty. But when the
bell rang and I walked into the hall, there you were.
Eventually the party died down. And after everyone walked by the window
again, and the dog stopped yapping, I walked through the house reopening
the curtains.
We almost bumped into each other. But your eyes were down so you didn't
know it was me. And together, we said it. "I'm sorry."
After being shut in for so long, I decided to catch a breath of fresh air. And
maybe, in turn, be a hero.
Then you looked up. You saw me. And there, in your eyes, what was it?
Sadness? Pain? You moved around me and tried pushing your hair away from
your face. Your fingernails were painted dark blue. I watched you walk down
the long stretch of hallway, with people knocking into me. But I didn't care.
I stood there and watched you disappear. Forever.
Once again, everybody, D-4. Courtney Crimsen's house. The site of this
party.
No, this tape is not about Courtney . . . though she does play a part. But
Courtney has no idea what I'm about to say because she left just as things got
going.
I turn and walk in the opposite direction of Courtney's house.
My plan was to just walk by the place. Maybe I'd find someone struggling
to put a key in their car door and I'd give them a ride home.
I'm not going to Courtney's. I'm going to Eisenhower Park, the scene of
Hannah's first kiss.
But the street was empty. Everyone was gone.
Or so it seemed.
And then, someone called my name.
Over the tall wooden fence at the side of her house, a head poked up. And
whose head would that be? Bryce Walker's.
God, no. This can only end one way. If anyone can shovel more shit onto
Hannah's life, it's Bryce.
"Where you going?" he asked.
How many times had I seen him, with any of his girlfriends, grabbing their
wrists and twisting? Treating them like meat.
And that was in public.
My body, my shoulders, everything was set to keep walking by the house.
And I should have kept walking. But my face turned toward him. There was
steam rising up from his side of the fence.
"Come on, join us," he said. "We're sobering up."
And whose head should pop up beside his? Miss Courtney Crimsen's.
Now there was a coincidence. She's the one who used me as a chauffer to
attend a party. And there I was, crashing her after-party.
She's the one who left me stranded with no one to talk to. And there I was,
at her house, where she had nowhere to hide.
That's not why you did it, Hannah. That's not why you joined them. You
knew it was the worst choice possible. You knew that.
But who am I to hold a grudge?
That's why you did it. You wanted your world to collapse around you. You
wanted everything to get as dark as possible. And Bryce, you knew, could
help you do that.
He said you were all just relaxing a bit. Then you, Courtney, offered to give
me a ride home when we were done, not realizing "home" was only two
houses away. And you sounded so genuine, which surprised me.
It even made me feel a little guilty.
I was willing to forgive you, Courtney. I do forgive you. In fact, I forgive
almost all of you. But you still need to hear me out. You still need to know.
I walked across the wet grass and pulled a latch on the fence, popping the
gate open a few inches. And behind it, the source of the steam . . . a redwood
hot tub.
The jets weren't on, so the only sound was the water lapping against the
sides. Against the two of you.
Your heads were back, resting on the edge of the hot tub. Your eyes were
shut. And the little smiles on your faces made the water and steam look so
inviting.
Courtney rolled her head my way but kept her eyes shut. "We're in our
underwear," she said.
I waited a second. Should I?
No . . . but I will.
You knew what you were getting into, Hannah.
I took off my top, pulled off my shoes, took off my pants, and climbed the
wooden steps. And then? I descended into the water.
It felt so relaxing. So comforting.
I cupped the hot water in my hands and let it drip over my face. I pushed it
back through my hair. I forced my eyes to shut, my body to slide down, and my
head to rest against the ledge.
But with the calming water also came terror. I should not be here. I didn't
trust Courtney. I didn't trust Bryce. No matter what their original intentions, I
knew them each well enough not to trust them for long.
And I was right not to trust them . . . but I was done. I was through
fighting. I opened my eyes and looked up at the night sky. Through the steam,
the whole world seemed like a dream.
I narrow my eyes as I walk, wanting to shut them completely.
Before long, the water became uncomfortable. Too hot.
When I open my eyes, I want to be standing in front of the park. I don't
want to see any more of the streets I walked, and the streets Hannah walked,
the night of the party.
But when I pushed my back against the tub and sat up to cool my upper
body, I could see my breasts through my wet bra.
So I slid back down.
And Bryce slid over . . . slowly . . . across the underwater bench. And his
shoulder rested against mine.
Courtney opened her eyes, looked at us, then shut them again.
I swing a fist to the side and rattle a rusted chain-link fence. I shut my eyes
and drag my fingers across the metal.
Bryce's words were soft, an obvious attempt at romance. "Hannah Baker,"
he said.
Everyone knows who you are, Bryce. Everyone knows what you do. But I,
for the record, did nothing to stop you.
You asked if I had fun at the party. Courtney whispered that I wasn't at the
party, but you didn't seem to care. Instead, your fingertips touched the outside
of my thigh.
I open my eyes and pound the fence again.
I clenched my jaw and your fingers moved away.
"It broke up pretty fast," you said. And just as fast, your fingertips were
back.
I hold tight to the fence and keep walking forward. When my fingers pull
away from the metal, my skin slices open.
Your whole hand was back. And when I didn't stop you, you slid your hand
across my belly. Your thumb touched the bottom of my bra and your pinky
touched the top of my underwear.
I turned my head sideways, away from you. And I know I didn't smile.
You pulled your fingers together and rubbed slow, full circles around my
stomach. "Feels nice," you said.
I felt a shift in the water and opened my eyes for one brief second.
Courtney was walking away.
Do you need more reasons for everyone to hate you, Courtney?
"Remember when you were a freshman?" you asked.
Your fingers made their way under my bra. But you didn't grab me. Testing
the boundaries, I guess. Sliding your thumb along the underside of my
breasts.
"Weren't you on that list?" you said. "Best ass in the freshman class."
Bryce, you had to see my jaw clench. You had to see my tears. Does that
kind of shit turn you on?
Bryce? Yes. It does.
"It's true," you said.
And then, just like that, I let go. My shoulders went limp. My legs fell
apart. I knew exactly what I was doing.
Not once had I given in to the reputation you'd all set for me. Not once.
Even though sometimes it was hard. Even though, sometimes, I found myself
attracted to someone who only wanted to get with me because of what they'd
heard. But I always said no to those people. Always!
Until Bryce.
So congratulations, Bryce. You're the one. I let my reputation catch up
with me—I let my reputation become me—with you. How does it feel?
Wait, don't answer that. Let me say this first: I was not attracted to you,
Bryce. Ever. In fact, you disgusted me.
And I'm going to kick your ass. I swear it.
You were touching me . . . but I was using you. I needed you, so I could let
go of me, completely.
For everyone listening, let me be clear. I did not say no or push his hand
away. All I did was turn my head, clench my teeth, and fight back tears. And
he saw that. He even told me to relax.
"Just relax," he said. "Everything will be okay." As if letting him finger
me was going to cure all my problems.
But in the end, I never told you to get away . . . and you didn't.
You stopped rubbing circles on my stomach. Instead, you rubbed back and
forth, gently, along my waist. Your pinky made its way under the top of my
panties and rolled back and forth, from hip to hip. Then another finger
slipped below, pushing your pinky further down, brushing it through my hair.
And that's all you needed, Bryce. You started kissing my shoulder, my neck,
sliding your fingers in and out. And then you kept going. You didn't stop there.
I'm sorry. Is this getting too graphic for some of you? Too bad.
When you were done, Bryce, I got out of the hot tub and walked two houses
away. The night was over.
I was done.
I tighten my fist and lift it in front of my face. Through my teary eyes, I watch
the blood squeeze through my fingers. The skin is cut deep in a few places,
torn by the rusted fence.
No matter where Hannah wants me to go next, I know where I'm spending
the rest of my night. But first, I need to clean my hand. The cuts sting, but I
mostly feel weak from the sight of my own blood.
I head for the nearest gas station. It's a couple of blocks down and not too
far out of my way. I flick my hand a few times, dripping dark spots of blood
onto the sidewalk.
When I reach the station, I tuck my hurt hand into my pocket and pull open
the glass door of the mini-mart. I find a clear bottle of rubbing alcohol and a
small box of Band-Aids, drop a few bucks on the counter, and ask for a key to
the restroom.
"Restrooms are around back," the woman behind the counter says.
I turn the key in the lock and push the restroom door open with my
shoulder. Then I rinse my hand beneath cold water and watch the blood circle
down the drain. I crack the seal on the bottle of alcohol and, in one motion
because I won't do it if I think, empty the entire bottle over my hand.
My whole body tenses and I curse as loud and as hard as I can. It feels like
my skin is peeling away from the muscle.
After what seems like nearly an hour, I can finally bend and flex my
fingers again. Using my free hand and my teeth, I apply some Band-Aids to
my cut hand.
I return the key and the woman says nothing more than, "Have a good
night."
When I reach the sidewalk, I start jogging again. There's only one tape left.
A blue number thirteen painted in the corner.