Guilt of Burden

"We're out of money." My mother's voice was hoarse; she couldn't look my brother or sister in the eye.

"It's okay. I won't go." Stephanie Woodburn crumpled her acceptance letter into a ball and tossed it in the trash.

"I'll get a job and earn money." My younger brother, Jamie Woodburn, stood up, his thin frame making him look painfully fragile.

"Enough!" Mom shouted. "Are you trying to kill me?"

Maybe if I died, they could live.

I opened the secondhand laptop on my desk and logged into the backend system for the National High School Physics Competition.

On the screen: [Charles Woodburn — First Place Gold Medal. Guaranteed admission pending confirmation. Special award: 5,000 dollars (to be disbursed immediately).]

This was the secret I'd kept for six months.

I hadn't told my mom. This money couldn't be used to fill the bottomless pit that was me.

I clicked "Decline Guaranteed Admission."

A warning popped up: [This action is irreversible. The award will be disbursed to the designated account in accordance with the forfeiture compensation clause. Confirm?]

From the hidden compartment in my drawer, I pulled out Stephanie's Social Security card.

I entered the card number and hit confirm.

My existence was this family's only negative asset. Once that asset was cleared, the deficit would turn into a surplus.

I took out a sheet of printer paper and wrote the title: Asset Allocation Statement

Item 1: Physics competition award of 5,000 dollars has been transferred to Stephanie's account. The password is her birthday. It's enough to cover three years of tuition at the arts high school.

Item 2: My accidental death insurance policy. The beneficiary was changed to Mom two months ago. Coverage: 30,000 dollars.

Item 3: Jamie, my study notes are on the D drive. They're valuable. Don't delete them.

When I finished, I placed the paper under the laptop, locked the door, and took three bottles of escitalopram from my pocket.

Recurrent major depressive disorder—that's what I have. I rely entirely on this imported medication that isn't covered by insurance.

It can't cure me. But it can kill me.

I poured out a handful of white pills and shoved them into my mouth.

I drank some water, swallowed the handful, then took another handful, until the bottles were empty.

I lay down on the bed. My stomach churned violently; my heart pounded like it would burst through my chest.

My phone buzzed.

A text message: [Bank Alert] Your account ending in 3091 has received a transfer of 5,000 dollars.

The money had arrived.

My consciousness began to blur; numbness spread through my limbs.

I closed my eyes and gave this family the only real release I could.

At 5:30 a.m., the alarm rang on time.

My body lay curled under the blanket, white foam and undigested pill fragments clinging to the corner of my mouth.

I reached out to turn off the alarm, but my hand passed through the nightstand.

I floated beneath the ceiling, looking down at the corpse called "Charles."

Mom got up. A knock sounded at the door.

"Charles, get up and take your meds," she called through the wood. "Your oatmeal's on the stove."

The body didn't answer. The alarm kept ringing until it shut itself off.

"Lazy to the point of death," she muttered. She didn't open the door.

I have a terrible morning temper. The doctor said it's a depression symptom—she doesn't dare provoke me.

At six o'clock, Jamie and Stephanie got up and began fighting over the bathroom.

"Why didn't he come out to hog it today?" Jamie said around his toothbrush, kicking my door.

Stephanie came over with her backpack and pressed her ear to the crack.

"Charles?" she called softly. "I'm heading to school."

She frowned, then pulled a ten-dollar bill from her pocket and slid it under the door.

"Leftover from buying books yesterday. Get yourself some snacks."