I'll show them. I'll show everybody. They may not appreciate me now, but mark my words, when I'm dead and buried they'll be sorry. Oh, the deep, deep sorrow they will all feel, wishing they could bring me back, regretting all those things they said to me.
Imagine the tearful faces of the hundreds of people at my funeral, all wishing they had tried to comfort me, that they'd done something, anything to prevent my tragic and untimely death. I can see it now: all those stuck-up jerks, once so high and mighty, now reduced to pathetic moans of anguish as they watch my coffin being lowered into the grave forever and are powerless to do anything but wallow in their own regret and shame at the indifference they showed me all those years.
Well, they should have thought of that when they had the chance!
They'll hate themselves for not paying attention when I'd complain about never being able to find a girlfriend, and for not taking my constant pleas for sympathy on Facebook to heart. They'll finally realize I was a human being with feelings and needs who was suffering in ways nobody had ever suffered before. But the time for mercy will be over. All they'll be able to do is curse themselves for being so uncaring, for not patiently listening to me talk about all my problems all the time. My memory will haunt their every waking moment forever, the question "Why didn't I reach out to him?" constantly echoing through their tortured minds.
But there will be no answer, for Thomas Carlisle Northrop will be gone forever, moldering 6 feet below the earth, an eternal testament, never to be forgotten, to the savage and immutable cruelty of his fellow man.
I bet Jenny MacIntosh from high school will even write a poem about me. Yes, how ironic that I'll finally be good enough for her then, when it's too late!
How sorry they will be. Oh so sorry. All of them. Forever.
Tom? Tom Northrop? Not really ringing any bells. Wait, I think I remember that guy now—really, he's still alive? I figured he killed himself last year sometime.
He's still going on and on about it, huh? Wow. Man, that's strange. For some reason, I thought I remembered getting some sort of an e-mail about that guy a while back. I guess I just assumed he must've offed himself by now, what with all his moping around and that loud, dramatic sighing. I'm thinking of the right Tom, right? Self-asborbed, depressive type? Always trying to get attention by acting sad and dramatic? Yeah, that's gotta be the same guy.
Well, what do you know?
Wait, is he definitely still alive? Wasn't that the funeral I couldn't go to? It was in, like, late 2009 or something, I think? No? God, I must be thinking of someone else. I guess I don't really have a very clear memory of Tom in my head. I mean, I have sort of a vague image of him walking around with that same morose expression on his face all the time, but like I said, I'm probably thinking of someone else.
To tell the truth, I haven't thought about Tom in ages. It's weird, because on the rare occasions when he does come up, I always refer to him in the past tense. Nobody ever corrected me.
Oh no! I know who I'm thinking of that died! Rob! Rob Morgan. He was the one who died. He had, like, gall bladder cancer or something, if I remember correctly. God, what a great guy he was. Just a super-nice dude. Everyone loved him. Talk about somebody who had so much to offer the world, and now he's gone. Real shame he had to go. Real shame.
Wow, look at me, I'm tearing up. I—I'm sorry, it's just, Rob was such a special human being and, I don't know, I wish I'd spent more time with him while he was still with us. It just sucks so much that he's gone, you know? Life is so precious.
Wait, who was I talking about before? Dave? Hank? Oh well, it doesn't really matter at all.