Never Letting Go

When the letter came, I was astonished yet slightly excited. It's not everday you get a letter from your dead best friend. I chuckled. A week. One week, he's been dead for and I knew it. I just knew he was alive. "I told you to stop being dead and I thank you." I whispered to the empty chair that he once sat in.

It arrived at midnight, he was always the dramatic type; always over exaggerating everything. Mrs Hudson was asleep and there was a deafening silence which was unusual and I didn't like it.

Thankfully, the silence was finally broken by the faint sound of the letterbox being opened and closed along with a clatter of somethig hitting the floor.

At first glance, I immediatly noticed his hand writing. He had written my name on the front. Not my full name, only "John.". When I picked it up for closer examination, I saw how crinkled up the letter was, and the writing was smudged from the rain. I wondered where he was; probably showing off to some criminal with his deduction skills. I smiled at the thought of him and how happy I was that he could possibly be back.

Hesitantly, I peeled open the envelope, trying not to ruin the paper, but failing miserably when I ripped it due to my hands shaking at what would be written on the small card inside. Shakily, I slid the paper out of the envelope and looked at it. 3 words and the date. It was sent four days before it happened. I started crying. He's not back. I'm such an idiot. He's gone and he isn't coming back. How could he have survived. He's lying in his grave, dead.

One last time, I looked at the little piece of paper before scrunching it up and throwing it against the wall. It read "I'm sorry, John."