the day after tomorrow

the day after

Dear Bebe, I don't really know what to say. I haven't always been the best with "stating my truth" or at least my feelings. I know it's kinda shitty to just leave you like this, and I assure you there were other options, but with all honesty, I probably wouldn't have lasted long anyway if I told you what actually happened. That's going to be later. When I met you, I knew we were going to be best friends.

It was a cold Colorado day when I first saw you. You were hiding behind your parents at our towns summer water balloon fight. You looked really weird, but if I'm being entirely honest I probably looked worse. You had shown up a little bit late, and we were already packing up and throwing away the little bits of plastic scattered on the cool green grass. You had the prettiest curls I had ever seen, and I was honestly kind of amazed how pretty you were, even though you were just seven. Your family brought the biggest wagon of water balloons I had ever seen, and I was kind of scared to talk to you. You became pretty popular after that, if I remember correctly. You were the girl who had brought all of those water balloons and had almost single-handedly brought back the party. You were cool, effortless, and I didn't really know how to act. I still don't. I remember you saying(I think in seventh grade), that the only reason you started talking to me was because I was the only face you recognized. For I while I felt honored, until you continued speaking. You started gushing about how I looked weird with my stupid purple beret and how you didn't recognize my face, just the ugly thing that was attached to it. Later that year, our friends said that they saw us scarfing down goldfish together. I don't really remember third grade. Do you?
✭
Bebe sighs. She doesn't really know if she can keep reading this. It's too much. Too much insight into who her best friend used to be. After a while, she manages to get out of bed. She hasn't really been the same after what happened. After she got the letter, she hasn't been able to sleep. She wanted to read it, analyze it, find out why her best friend decided to fucking kill herself. Or at least try to. Bebe got the letter right before she attempted. Wendy stabbed herself in her kitchen, bleeding and bleeding before anyone called an ambulance. Bebe hasn't been able to visit her yet. Not until she finishes the letter. But first, she needs air. She steps outside, grabbing her jacket as she walks into the brisk November air. She decides she's been sober for long enough.

Once she makes it back from the store, she drowns herself in liquor. She drinks and drinks, trying to make herself any less miserable than she is. She can't bear to live without Wendy, but she can't live with her either. She's torn, wishing and wishing that she had seen the signs, heard the warnings, seen or heard or done fucking anything to prevent Wendy from killing herself. She's also cold. It's one of those days where the cold burrows into your soul and heart and mind and doesn't let go until you've done it. Broken bottles litter the ground and fresh wounds litter her arms and legs and brain. Not all wounds are physical. She would know. It had been a year since she'd cut. A full year of laughing and smiling and playing with her friends. With Wendy. Wendy was the reason why she cut a barcode into her skin. Three, then four, then six dainty little lines for a dainty little girl. Winter echoes through her bones. She can't stop. Not now, not ever. Her best friend just killed herself, and she has to know why.
✭

I was always the brains, the brawn, the "beast" of our operation. I'm not saying I'm hideous now or anything, but I was always the pretty one before you came in third grade. I suppose I was even after, but eventually you took that away from me. I was never the ugly one in elementary school. I was the pretty one. Smart and talented. Dare I say, I was the most popular girl at South Park elementary. At least in our grade. I guess I got jealous once you got your boobs. That's whenever Stan stopped paying attention to me and focused all of his love on you. But Stan will come later in this letter. I've always been a clingy person. I was the one to latch onto their mother's leg on the first day of school; I was the one to cry when she left. After that, I tried to become a little less obvious about my clinginess. I tried to be the independent one, the 'cool' one. I started spewing all of this bullshit, using words I didn't even know the meaning of, trying and trying to be the smart one. The funny one. Honestly, the *anything* at our school. I wanted to be mysterious, but I wanted to be known. I wanted to be quiet, but I wanted people to talk to me. I wanted to be different. And I guess it worked a little too well. I felt liked no one liked me, so I shut them out even more. Bebe, I was super fucking jealous of you(especially in high school). I still would be, I guess, if I was alive. This is probably really shitty timing. I'm sorry. Maybe this would have gone differently if I just told you.

After elementary, we both got weird. We got bullied, ridiculed, and sometimes beat(or at least you did, I could always woop Cartman's ass). We both had our weird phases. We were gacha kids, anime 'weebs', and overall just weird ass losers. My parents started fighting and I started cutting(and now you do too). I lost myself, lost you, and started to lose touch with reality. I felt as if life didn't exist. As if *I* didn't exist. It got really hard to cope, so of course, I turned to cutting.

It was hard to start, forcing myself to draw each individual line on my poor skin. I felt bad. But I got used to it. Oh boy did I get used to it. I got so bad that my arms started to itch under the skin, through the marrow. Eventually you found out. At that point, you didn't really understand(but I know you do know). You would say, "Just stop, it's not that hard," or "Are you stupid? That shit hurts." I felt invalidated, so I withdrew from you. Self harm was the only thing keeping me remotely attached to Earth. Without it I would drift in and out of consciousness, losing control of my own goddamn mind. But eventually, through all of that, I started to find you again. But we stuck together through it all until high school.

You had a huge glow-up, and suddenly I was the 'ugly' friend. I was the one who was left out of parties. I was the one who got called a party pooper even though I just wanted to study anyway. I was never one to do drugs or any of that, but I sure wanted to. For some fucking reason I wanted to fuck up my life. Vape, smoke weed, snort coke, all of that. I wanted to completely ruin my life, but I didn't(though I suppose I have now). I needed you Bebe, but all you needed was your shitty reputation.