Monologues About Suicide

I’m just cold.
These days, everything feels rehearsed, nothing is new anymore. Maybe I’m just done with this act of hiding behind a made up character. I mean, why fake feelings? Like laughing so loud, it's unrealistic, just to mask desperate crying.
What's the point? I’m unsure how to write the "proper" suicide note. Pop culture likes to make suicide seem like sad heavy metal music on repeat. Tears gathering on tired eyes while fingers punch every letter on a keyboard. That's a little too melodramatic for me. I’m sorry that I never mentioned this before.
Nothing you could have said or done would’ve changed this. I’ve been planning my suicide like an eager bride her wedding; months.
I want this to be easy for you all. Maybe just lighter than
I do love you Kyle, mom, dad, Cheryl, Lynn. It would be an asshole move to say, I hope you all forgive me for this; I just hope you can, someday.
Chuck
_
I’m shivering. That's how I know I am still alive. I shut the window. I print out the note and place it on the table near the door hoping to brace the poor soul who finds mine. Plus, it’d be terrible to cover my last words in blood.
I have spent the last 48 hours cleaning my apartment. Threw away almost everything, except the heavy furniture that needs two to move. I figured it would be traumatic for someone to help me commit the greatest crime against myself.
As I turn the knob, I watch the water pour. I take my clothes off, put them in the hamper and settle into my last seat on Earth. I decided to leave the music off, just seems wrong to be a nuisance to my neighbors.
I sit in silence listening to the tub reach its fill. Now, I just sit in silence.
Bills paid, utilities shut off tomorrow. I took some of that abundant vacation time acquired; they'll figure out I quit.
The urge to question my calculated decision starts to creep in.
Should I be doing
To see with an over excessive amount of flowers and shrubs. A paved walkway split the garden in the middle and as I walked up the stairs I could see three doors. Each door had different names, except the one on the right; it seemed vacant.
I walked towards the side of the house and noticed some steps.
Maybe there?
I get closer and see the small sign saying, "Layla's Customized Tour Services," looks open so I walk in. I am a bit taken back. This is a business?
A well-lit, white, small square room with an attached, smaller rectangular room. I can see a silhouette in the rectangular room. Seems to be a kitchen judging by the smell of recently baked cookies in the air.
The walls white except for the entrance wall. That wall has golden, stenciled flowers covering it. Across this graffiti art is a desk with a chair on each side of it. Warm, but not what I expected for a travel agency.
"Come in, Come in," she says. "Are you Layla?"
"Yes, give me a moment, I will be with you shortly. Please take a seat, Charles."
So, she does know me!
I can feel my face turning red; first from anger and then from embarrassment.
I take a