Impulse (Impulse, #1)

by Ellen Hopkins

Act on your impulse, swallow the bottle, cut a little deeper, put the gun to your chest.

Finis.

once in a while, I tumbled way low, took a ride on the H train. Oh yeah, that’s what I’m talking about. A hot shot clear to hell.

Memory is a tenuous thing, like a rainbow’s end or a camera with a failing lens.

Like I’m here, but I’m not. Like someone cares. But they don’t. Like I belong somewhere else, anywhere but here, and escape lies just past that snowy window,

Does wanting to die equal losing your mind?

Maybe crazy is preferable to staying strong when you just want to break down and weep. But big boys don’t cry. Do they?

So far, everyone I’ve ever met has been a liar.

The Worst Liars Are the ones everyone thinks would never, ever tell a lie.

Tony is pretty cool, for a gay guy who tried to commit suicide.

Are you really fucked-up or just totally misunderstood?”

Funny, but sometimes all I feel is good. More than good. Great. Invincible. When Mama felt like that, Daddy called her manic. But why is mania bad, if it means you’re on top of the world, where everything is white? Bright.

You might call me sneaky, though I’d call me clever,

Feeling loss is normal, Conner. Attempting suicide isn’t dealing with it so well.

Ma never admitted her part in that, never even acknowledged that the whole thing happened. Larry is a decent man, she said, when I told her about it the first time. A bit rough around the edges, yes, but he’d never ever do such a thing, little liar.

But once Dad decided enough was enough, I wasn’t enough to make him face the ugly truth of Ma. And Tony Jr. would always remind him of her. Severed ties. Severed me.

I can’t deal with your freaky mood swings, Vanessa. One minute you’re solid, the next you’re like water. Boiling water. I love you. But not enough to stay with you.

Mourning them means forgiving them, something I’ll never do.

Funny How Much You can learn about someone, by opening your ears while they talk about themselves.

The Black Widow believes she’s a player. But players are easily played by better players,

Life isn’t fair, and luck? That is something you create.

“But what about being gay?” I asked Phillip once. “Some say that dooms you.” I think God cares more about how you treat others than who you sleep with.

The hardest part about this religion thing is that every “believer” believes something different.

High expectations—great, I burned myself again. You’d think by now I would have learned to underachieve.

I have no problem with increasing security to keep this country safe. But how do we decide who poses a threat? And—bigger question— who decides?

I’m not sure what I believe in, Vanessa, other than there has to be a better reason for living than what I’ve seen so far. Such an incredible waste of energy, to work your ass off for sixty years, then shrivel up, die, and be nothing more than a memory—if you’re lucky enough to leave someone behind who will remember you. There must be more. Don’t you think?

Dreams I cannot remember have stirred another part of me. I decide to let Kate see. Without a word, I toss back the blankets and climb from bed, pajamas pointing stiffly in Kate’s direction. She just smiles. Was it something I said?

I’m neither up nor down today, just cruising in shades of gray—a cold, colorless place, something like being dead, I guess.

I sit, dissecting my childhood, think about holidays and vacations, most of them good enough if you measure by toys, clothes, cool things to do, but can things really make you happy? I suppose some people think so.

My happiest memories have no place in the past; they are those I have yet to create.

Going home can only lead to confrontation. Why would I want that when I’ve finally freed myself of it?”

“Forever has no meaning when you’re living in the moment. I wasn’t ready for that moment to end.”

“How responsible for our partners are we?” I ask.

it’s easy to overthink love, to dissect and question it until it is no more.

How can I ever feel normal, propped up (or down) by pharmaceuticals?

acrophobia.

“What’s it like?” I ask. “Making love to someone?” Vanessa takes my hand. I thought I knew, once or twice before, but now I see there was no love at all between us. I won’t know until I make love to you.

Love means holding on to someone just as hard as you can because if you don’t, one blink and they might disappear forever.

I should have known better than to get pregnant, but I thought maybe it would bring the father and me closer. When I told Trevor, he said to get an abortion. He wouldn’t help pay for it, wouldn’t even hold my hand while I waited to do that god-awful thing. I went alone, except for the baby inside me. It may sound odd, but I did love that little blob. Still, I made it die. And when I think too hard about it, my insides hurt. Trying not to cry,

“Life is all about change. If it were static, think about how boring it would be. You can’t be afraid of it, and you can’t worry that you’ll mess things up. You deserve good things, and I want to be one them.”

Some churches say suicide denies him that comfort. But could a true and loving God turn His back on such a tortured soul?

I was just thinking about who would care if I killed myself. I never thought about anyone else when I tried before.

And I realize love isn’t about sex. It’s about connection.