Open When I'm Gone

24. I Am Not Who I Was.

The moon is high in its revolution when I finish my letter. My hand is shaking around my thin silver pen. My handwriting is slanting and childish compared to her perfect calligraphy, but it doesn't matter. This one's never going to be read by anyone anyways: This one's just for her.

I dump the trash can to the floor, empty and half written letters tumbling to the carpeted floor.

Her bible sits closed on my floor. I was going to try to look through it, though the second I opened it, the smell of her perfume wafted out, and I slammed it closed before the wave of longing could drag me too deep.

My fingers fumble in the dark, hands gripping the cold plastic I haven't touched in so long. My heart is racing, but it's okay.

I'm okay.

The lighter feels smaller in my hand than it did the last time I used it, like all the power has drained out, leaving only a mundane junk drawer item.

My chest feels tight.

This has no power over me anymore.

The paper feels stiff in my hand, the oils from my skin leaving awkward stains against the stark white.

I tell her I love her.

I tell her that I'm sorry.

I tell her that I know it's all my fault, and I am trying to forgive myself.

I tell her that I'm trying.

The fire casts a hazy glow around my room, orange and flickering as it makes my room look just the slightest bit haunted.

My hands tremble with the lighter as I hold up the paper, the fire stretching as if yearning for the objects around me, longing to consume.

For a moment, as soon as the fire catches, it's as if nothing happened, the paper doesn't even seem to burn. Well, that lasts for about two seconds, then the pale paper starts to curl, blackening around the edges before flaking into the metal waste bin. The heat radiates from the page, all but scorching the tips of my fingers.

The air is hazy with smoke, and as it fills and clogs my lungs I realize that this might not have been the best idea.

I pull my hand back quickly, paper dropping softly into the trash can. The paper burns for a few more seconds before folding over, running out of space, and fizzling out, leaving the embers still glowing in the bottom. The air is full of smoke, and I have to hold my breath to see if the fire alarm is going to go off and expose me. But the late night stays eerily silent. It's then that I finally let myself take a full breath.

My letter is gone.

I let myself fall back into the floor, the air still sticky with the smell, the weight still sitting heavily on my chest.

I guess she lied to me.

I tear my hands through my hair, tears pulling at my eyes, begging to be let out. A scream building in my chest, clawing to be set free.

The carpet is so cold on my bare back, sending unwanted shivers up and down my skin.

God, I'd gotten so used to not feeling this, knowing that it's coming back feels like a grenade to my brain.

It's Christmas, and she's not here. She hasn't been here for oh so long.

Am I betraying her by going on this trip with the Cheriths? Am I forgetting about her because I'm losing feelings?

Am I losing feelings?

I promised her I wouldn't forget about her, I promised that even after she was gone, even after I moved on I wouldn't forget, and I'm forgetting.