[ WP ] A man tries to commit suicide 50 times but something always stops him . It is almost as if the universe wants him to stay alive .

How long had it been since the first time? Ten years? Twenty? How long had it been since I decided that the world no longer needed me? 
 
 My entire life has been one mess after another. My parents were killed in a car accident early in life. I was the only survivor; a young child with a severe limp and a scarred face. I was tormented by other children, unable to walk, play, or even interact with other people. I grew up in a foster home dreaming of escaping my own life. Of being somebody. Anybody. It was n't until I got older that I realized that I was n't. My intelligence? Mediocre. My talents? Commonplace. My luck? Abysmal. 
 
 The clock ticks. A sharp, nagging reminder that pulls of me out of my reverie and reminds me of all my failures. The universe taunting me in short measured increments, goading me to try again. How many times has it been now? 48? No... 49. Maybe 50 will be my lucky number? 
 
 I feel the cold metal of the revolver in my hand. It's been so long, but I vaguely remember the first time I ever lifted a gun. As I pressed the barrel to my temple, I remember being surprised at just how heavy it was. Maybe it was just the weight of my actions. Back then I still believed they meant something. 
 
 
 I remember steeling myself for what I was about to do. I was so tired. I could n't stand it any longer. As I began to squeeze the trigger, a sharp rap at my door startled me. I flinched and the gun went off. The bullet whizzed past my head, leaving a red line across my forehead and a hole in the wall of my apartment. The UPS man stormed through my unlocked door. The fucking UPS man, a look of terror and disgust on his face as he saw me sitting alone in the living room holding a gun with the scent of singed hair and gunpowder filling the room. He immediately ran screaming for help. It was only a matter of time until my landlord and the police showed up. 
 
 
 The worst part? I never did get my security deposit back because of that damn hole in the wall. 
 
 
 The cops took me away because I needed `` help.'' That was n't the case, though. I just needed release. I needed escape. I was institutionalized for two years. I learned to play the part of the recovering patient, but every night all I could think of was the sweet freedom of death. They did n't understand. They could n't. 
 
 
 I was finally released from that awful padded prison and I managed to get a small rented room. A week later I was ready to try again. To make attempt number two. I took a razor blade to my wrists, laid down on the carpet, and tried to die. As I slipped out of consciousness, I felt this sense of pride as my essence formed a warm puddle beneath me. I finally achieved what fate had denied me two years ago. 
 
 
 I woke up in the hospital with bandages on my arms. Apparently my landlord found me and called for an ambulance. I never got the security deposit back for that place either. Fucking carpet. 
 
 
 I managed to get myself out of bed before the doctors could notice I'd left. I walked alone and defeated through the night. I felt miserable. I felt like a failure. What type of sick loser tries to kill himself twice and ca n't finish the job? I was never good at anything, and apparently suicide was no exception. 
 
 
 The next few tries were quicker, simpler, and more discreet. I went to a pharmacy and stole as many boxes of pain pills as I could put my hands on. I swallowed them all in an alley and passed out. I woke up the next morning feeling fine. I saw a few weeks later that the company recalled the drugs. Bad batch. 
 
 
 I snuck into a stranger's garage and hotwired their car. I passed out in the driver's seat, only to be woken up the next day by a man yelling at me and banging on the windows. Apparently all I did was wear his car battery out. He kicked the shit out of me but left me alive. 
 
 
 I tried and I tried and I tried again. I jumped off of a bridge. I woke up on the shore nearby. I set myself on fire. The sprinkler system turned on. I tried to freeze to death. I woke up the next morning covered in snow but very much alive. I tried to hang myself. Three times actually. Two leather belts and one synthetic braided rope. All three snapped in half and each time I fell unceremoniously onto the ground in a heap of tears and shame. 
 
 
 No failure hurt more than the bus. That fucking bus. I waited for the perfect time and leapt into the roadway with my eyes closed. I felt a sharp impact and heard a sickening thud. The kind that gets you right in the gut. I opened my eyes when I realized I was lying on the pavement. A bystander had pushed me out of the way and been crushed by 14 tons of merciful steel. 
 
 
 That lucky bastard. That should have been me. 
 
 
 How many times was it again? 49 tries. 49 failures. I stare at the wall in front of me. The stock white of another empty apartment. It's almost funny that I still live like my life is temporary. Fate has proven otherwise. It feels like the universe is Kathy Bates, breaking my ankles over and over again until I write some story that I do n't have in me. It's like God was n't satisfied taking my happiness; he also needed my free will. 
 
 
 Lucky number 50. Maybe this time it will stick. I look down at the plastic tarp underneath me as I crack a rare smile around the barrel of the gun. Maybe I'll at least get the security deposit back on this place. 
 
 Edit - Typos
