The Letter

It had been seven years to the day, seven years since he wrote those fateful words, acted out that foolish decision. He’d regretted it every single day, hated himself for what he’d done, not necessarily because of what it cost him, but because of the way it had affected her. He had never meant to hurt her, that was the last thing he wanted, but he wasn’t thinking when he did it. All he cared about at the time was getting away from it all, all the pain, the pressure, the depressed feelings that haunted him, day in and day out, never did he think about the impression he would be leaving. He couldn’t escape the memory of it; it was etched into his mind to remember for the rest of his time in this Hell on Earth...1

It was mid-March, but was rather cool, winter’s chilling presence not yet yielding to spring’s gracious warmth, and the gentle rains drove the warmth even farther away. It was a Saturday night, and he had just spent the day with the most wonderful people on the face of the planet, the people who made him happiest, his friends. Well, the closest thing he had to friends. And among them was his dream, the person he cared for more than any other in the world, even if the feelings weren’t reciprocated. Just to be with her had made his day. Unfortunately, as always, it ruined his night as well. Every time he left her presence, he began to wallow in his self-pity. He would convince himself that he had the worst life in the world, and it usually worked. The number of times he felt alone in the world, felt as if he was the only one to have problems, the number of times he cried himself to sleep, he couldn’t keep count anymore. If he had a penny for all the tears he’d cried, he’d be able to buy his own island to go and cry on. The number of times he held a blade to his wrist, just thinking how easy it would be to get it all over with, to escape things, it was unbelievable. But then he would realize that there are better ways out of it, better ways to escape than never coming back. He knew he was screwed up, and he tried to change, but he found it so hard to simply accept the life that had been given to him. Tonight was exceptionally bad. He had recently been under a great deal of stress, and had a run of bad luck in life. He was feeling completely helpless and unloved, being abandoned by his best friend right as things were beginning to look up for him. It was the second best friend he lost in the past year. He knew he needed to let his feelings out so he picked up his journal and began to write, the best way he knew to release his emotions without worrying anybody. He knew that his friends would listen, that *she* would sympathize for him, but he did not want pity, or sympathy. He wanted a friend, to be loved by someone, anyone, and knew she would not give him that. No one could now. So, he began to write. As usual, he wrote in the form of a letter.2

‘To Anyone,3

I don’t know what’s happening to me anymore. No longer am I the great person I once was, always having something to do, somewhere to be, somebody to be with, no longer am I the great jokester I once was, no longer am I the great friend of everybody that I once was. No longer am I anyone. I don’t know what to do, where to turn, if there is anyone to turn to. I am starting to question my own religion, which is making me feel guilty, but I can’t help it. I mean, honestly, what sort of God would do this? What sort of God would give somebody something so great, just long enough to build up their hopes, only to rip it away? What sort of God would punish his people for always trying to do the right thing, be a good person? What kind of God punishes the good and rewards the bad? What kind of God decides to put someone in hell before they ever leave this life? What kind of God takes away the purest and most innocent of lives, young and old, while leaving the most vile of mankind on earth to live a long and healthy life? The kind that doesn’t exist, that’s what kind. 4

Today I spent the day with Corynn, and the rest of my “friends”. She makes me so happy, yet at the same time angry and sad. I know that I can never have her, know that she will never be mine to call my own. In this knowledge is how she hurts me. She plays with me, letting me get a faint taste of her sweetness, but never letting me take a full drink. If she only knew how she tortures me, she would stop. She has in the past. She found out, but instead of letting me take a full gulp, all she did was pull the glass away, smashing it into millions of little shards, my heart going with it. The pain she causes is indescribable, beyond anything the body could take, and almost too much for the mind and soul. But so it shall stay, and I must live with it.5

I wish Autumn would call, I miss talking to her. She would help me through this, she would make me feel better about myself, help me through these feelings of resentment. But no, God had to take her away too, rip her from my life just as I thought she had become a constant. Apparently he decided that it was too good for me to have a true friend. Now there is no one to help me. If Autumn would only call, then I could spill out all my feelings to her, and I know that she would help, not by feeling sorry for me or telling me how bad she feels about it, but by just listening to me, and being there. But no, her other friends matter more. I guess it is my own fault, I did tell her to spend more time with them. Another of my decisions I must face the consequences for. Alas, there are so many of them.6

I fear there is only one way to escape this Hell called life, only one way to reach a peaceful state of mind. I have considered it many times in the past, and cannot find another alternative. No matter where I go or what I do, my luck curse will be there. I fear it is time, before things get any worse than they are.’7

At this point, he began to cry, tears slowly rolling down his face, not weeping, just gently letting the tears out, and with his tears all his pain and suffering rolling away with them, all his fear of what he was about to do dissipating slowly. One tear managed to find its way onto the bottom of the paper he was writing on. He immediately moved the paper away, so no more tears would fall on it.8

‘I fear that there is only one way to escape, and I am going to take this course. I am sorry for any pain I may cause have caused during my time here, and any I may cause through this, but it is what I must do. Should anyone find this, then tell my “friends” it is not their fault, nor is it anyone else’s. Farewell, cruel world.’9

With this, he placed the notebook on his bed as he rose, wiping away the water where his tear at fell. He knew what he was to do next, and while he did not look forward to it, he was not afraid. He knew it had to be done. He went into his father’s room, to the safe where the pistol was locked up, and he began typing in the code. He had hoped the pills would keep him from doing this, but they had failed to work. ‘Too bad’, he thought to himself. As he entered the last digit to the code, he heard a conformation beep. ‘No turning back now’ he thought. He reached for the handle, his hand shaking, ever so slightly, as he slowly pulled the door open. As he looked inside the dark compartment, he saw it, his ticket to freedom. He reached up for the polished black grip, hand convulsing with nervousness. He reached for the clip lying next to the spot where the gun had been, and as he pushed it into the gun, he knew that this would be the last place he would ever see. When he heard the click of the clip locking into place, he blinked, taking what seemed an eternity to open his eyes back, and glanced downwards, to his ticket home. As he gently moved the barrel to his temple, taking his last steps toward his room, he began thinking back on his life, and realized it had not been so bad. As he turned the safety off, he thought about putting the gun back, and nobody would be the wiser. As he gently began squeezing the trigger, she flashed into his mind. Her smiling face, laughing at his creative stupidity, was the last image he saw. With a loud BOOM, his life ended, and his body fell with a THUD. As he looked down, he could see his bleeding head hitting the side of the bed on its way to the ground. As he looked at his hands, now a translucent cream colored, he realized he had not escaped this world after all, he merely condemned himself to be part of it forever. 10

As he began to lean down to examine the body himself, he heard a car door slam somewhere near the front of the driveway. He walked over to the window, and looking through the blinds, without needing to move them, he saw his “friends”, a car full, walking to his door. He felt himself slipping through the floor, and when his feet suddenly hit something solid, he looked up to see he was next to the front door. He reached for the lock and turned it, allowing his friends to open it without a hitch. As he saw the knob beginning to turn, he knew, then and there, he had made a mistake. He tried to grab the door handle, but his hand closed in on itself as if the large brass object didn’t exist. Why was he suddenly intangible yet also able to interact with objects? Why did he not have a choice? As the door swung open, he tried to push it closed again. only to find he could not touch the object. His hands passed through it as if it were nothing but air. He looked up at the first face through, Corynn’s, and was surprised, for once, to see she didn’t notice him. For the first time, he was glad as well. He saw her lips began to move, and heard her call his name as though she were miles away, barely a whisper to his recently deceased ears. And he watched as she pointed to the stairs, and led the group of his closest “friends” in the world up to his room. As he saw them walk through the door, his eyes immediately went to where he had left the notebook lying. He watched as his friend Derek reached for it and opened it, watched as a look of horror crossed his face, his eyes bulging out and his breathing faltering. He heard Corynn ask what was wrong, and watched as Derek tried to say something with nothing coming from his moving lips. They had not yet seen his body, hidden by the bed, the sheets pulled over top of it as it snagged on them while falling. He watched as the rest of his friends reached for the letter, and watched as it ripped in their effort to get it first. Corynn got the piece with the tear on it, and was obviously confused by what it was. As they pieced the paper back together, she began slowly reading it aloud. As she read, she began to choke up. She knew how he had felt now, and knew that it was her fault he was gone, or so it seemed. She couldn’t even finish reading the last few lines to the rest of them, as she could hardly breathe between the sobs of horror and realization. She began screaming, and when Derek tried to comfort her, she merely threw him to the side. She couldn’t believe it, that he was really gone, and she felt it was her fault. He saw it all, every moment of it, and tried to call out that it wasn’t her fault, that it was better this way, but nothing came from his throat, not even the slightest murmur. He watched as she saw a spot of red on his bed, across from where the notebook had been, and he saw the look on her face as she realized what it was. She slowly walked to the other side of the bed, taking what seemed an eternity yo move those few feet. He watched as she saw the blood seeping through the sheets, crumpled around his body like a quick attempt to hide the body, and watched as she fell to her knees, no longer able to stand, and watched as she began to just cry, not weep, just cry. He watched as his other “friends” finished the letter, and as they realized what Corynn had found. And they, too, began crying, and screaming “Why, God, Why?” As this all happened, all he could do was watch. He couldn’t be there for them, to comfort them, to explain why he did it. All he could do was watch helplessly as those closest to him grieved over the biggest loss of their lives, and he realized that they were his true friends, that he had not been alone in life, and that he had accomplished nothing in his deed, only ruined the lives of those he cared for the most. And he began to cry as well, not over his lost life, but over his friends loss.11

Yes, he remembered that day well. He spent everyday watching as his friends remembered it as well. He could move tirelessly and speedily through the world, and visited them each day, to see how they were holding up. Though they knew nothing of his presence, he knew that they knew he was watching over them, knew that they knew all the strange events and good luck had come from him. He had to watch each day as they all cried over him, still, after all these long years, and he tried many times to go on to the afterlife, but was stuck. Such was his punishment, to watch as his loved ones suffered because of him, and he accepted this punishment much easier than he accepted his life. All of this because of one action, one letter. 12