scarred.

{1} help.

Note: I recommend listening to the song on the right while reading :) 

P.S. I poured out my heart while writing this! I truly tried my best to make it perfect, making sure every comma was where it should be while stretching out my story-telling skill. I'd love opinions on this, so please leave a comment or message me your thoughts :} Anything's appreciated. Thank you for reading this

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{1}

O N E  |  H E L P 

Dear Alexander,

I thought it would be much easier to write to you, but I was wrong.

I don't know how you'll react when you'll see this letter on your doorstep. It'll be tucked into a nice, white envelope with your address written in the center, right under your name—Alexander Sommers. I wonder what will go through your mind when your eyes read the writing on the top left corner. Will your heart ache when you read the four letters of my name? Will your pale, crisp blue eyes fill with any tears?

I want to let you know that I remember every detail of our time together. I also want to make sure you'll have something to look back on... something that can remind you of me. So, here goes nothing.

Do you remember the first time we met?

It was a chilly evening in September. I had snuck out of St. Joseph's—the orphanage that had housed me since I was a broken down eight-year-old. I had a task in mind, but there were no thoughts surrounding it. No reasonings, no fears, no contemplations whatsoever. You'd think that a seventeen-year-old girl would at least think long and hard before heading to commit suicide, but apparently I was more different than I had thought.

I weaved through the massive, dull waves of crowds consisting of walking coats and hats in the sidewalks of New York. Though it was cold and my arms were dotted by goose-bumps, I wore no jacket nor did I feel cold. You know, it's said that when a person goes over their limit of pain, they become numb. It's starts mentally, and then grows and thrives to become physical.

When I spotted the sign for the subway, I slid my hand down the hand-railing as I walked down the stairs, without even giving one last look to endless skyscrapers that gave New York its personality.

The cold wind licked my neck and rolled across my arms one last time before I descended underground and into the subway station.

Then I faded into another blur of mindless walking bodies. Mostly everyone had tickets or traveling passes ready in their hands, prepared to be transported to their stops so they could return home.

Home. Something that had been ripped away from me when I was merely eight years old. No one had told me that it wasn't right for kids to be hit by their parents as much as I was. Not until a social worker told me as I was taken away from my home, escorted by a cop in his car. He even wailed the sirens for me.

I somehow managed to find the station of the train I wanted to catch, even through my mindless state. Around me, people swirled and talked. I stood still, slowly inching towards the edge of the station, getting closer and closer to the tracks. No one noticed. No one said a thing.

I waited to hear the train come close. I wanted to jump at the right time—just so no one could have the chance to save me. I brought my hand up to my chest and I felt a heartbeat. I thought to myself then, how interesting that the same beat I was listening to was going to fall silent in a few seconds. I was going to die, and I was going to be glad to escape my life.

My ears perked up as I heard the train roaring near. The beat of my heart jumped and grew faster and faster. It was as if my heart was begging me to take my life already. I felt my toes through my worn-down shoes as they curled upward. I was going to do it. I was going to jump.