Goodbye Letters

1. CYNTHIA

January 15, 2013 – Tuesday night

                I’m scraping my diary, its just a bunch of crappy ‘read about my life’ junk and its not true. That’s not who I am, I guess its just who I like to pretend I am. Most of the time I feel like I do tonight. A mess. A complete and utter mess. Like, seriously, why was I even born?! Yeah, in my diary I never mentioned the fact that I cut. Bet you never would have guessed it. I don’t really know why I do it either its just, just, everything hurts and when I cut I feel in control. Really, I am, I actually have control over that pain. The rest of it, I don’t know, if there’s a God like some people think then maybe its his fault that I’m in pain, if there isn’t one and its just how life is, well, that’s just how it is and I can’t control it but the pain of that bright red bodily fluid escaping my arm and dripping into the white sink, that I can control. It hurts but its fulfilling. Mom doesn’t know I do it. I hide it well but, I mean, come on, I’m not going to be able to hide the scars forever. Someday she’ll find out.

Oh, well, I’m not really getting anywhere but the point of scraping the diary and starting this is to have a place to really write who I am. The struggles I have, the emotions I deal with on a daily basis. Its probably going to be ridiculously ‘my poor life’ish but hey, if that’s how I feel its my business and really, this is just so that when/if, I kill myself my parents will have this to find and finally will see the real me the one who I try to hide from them. ~Cynth

He walks into his sister’s bedroom. He never bothers knocking even though each time he barges in un announced she yells at him.

As the door swings open he sees his sister sitting on her bed. She’s writing in a black book. He finds that odd as usually she’s writing in her purple diary that he is never allowed to touch let alone look at.

“Hey, what happened to the purple one Cynthia?” he asks in his boyish voice.

Her head jolts up and she quickly shuts her little black book and shoves it under her pillow “How many times have I told you! Don’t come in without knocking and having me say ‘come in Junior’ and never ever call me Cynthia! I’m Cynth.” She yells at him.

The little boy, Junior presumably, rolls his eyes “mom calls you Cynthia” he says her name slowly dragging out each letter “and you never yell at her, why don’t you like your name anyways. I like mine.”

“Well yours isn’t your mom’s stupid name.” she mumbles, not really to him or anyone.

“Well its, dads, is his stupid, too?” he asks innocently.

Cynthia takes a slow breath acting annoyed at her little brother’s question. “No, dad’s isn’t stupid, and neither is mom’s. I just don’t want it to be mine.”

“That doesn’t make any sense because I get to be daddy’s little man and you get to be mommy’s little, mommy’s little, um, her, little her.” He settles with.

“Woman? That the word you want?” she asks her brother as a grin begins to show before she quickly remembers her anger at the world and forces a scowl back onto her face.

He bites his lip and intently stares at the rug covering his sisters floor “I don’t like that word so you just get to be her little her.” He mumbles shyly.

“Sheesh, just what I always wanted to be.” She says under her breath in complete sarcasm but her brother hears and his face lights up in a smile “like I want to be just like daddy.”

“Sure Patrick, sure.” She flops back on her bed hoping Patrick Jr. takes the hint and will leave. She’s afraid she’s on the verge of a break down and doesn’t want him, or anyone to see it.

“Wanna know why I came in here?” He asks.

“No, not really.” She says to herself but to him she says “Sure, what kid?”

“Francis told mommy that you threw up after dinner, are you sick?”

Cynthia bolts upright in bed “She said what?!”

“That you threw up, are you sick? ‘cause she said you weren’t but, you must be, right?”

“Yeah, Patrick, I am sick, I’m really sick but only you and I can know okay? It’s a secret.”

“Why? If you’re sick you should go to the doctor.”

Cynthia slides out of her bed to the floor and crawls to her brother. She stays on her knees to be at eye level with him and holds onto his shoulder looking into his innocent, six year old eyes. “I’m sick in a way that a doctor can’t help, I’m sick inside, like where your feelings come from Patrick. Its where my feelings come from, they don’t work right, but I’m gonna fix them, okay? So you don’t have to tell anyone.”

He looks back into her eyes trying to understand. “In your heart, you hurt in there?” He says and he pokes his chubby finger into his sister’s chest.

“Yeah, in there.”

“But you’ll fix it? Without a doctor?”

“Yes.” She says to him but in her heart she knows that’s not true. I’m not fixable. It’s too late.

“Okay.” He says before running off down the hall forgetting all sense of the serious conversation he has been having as he moves on to play with his legos.

Cynthia stands and slowly shuts the door behind him. No no no!! Cynthia mentally yells at herself. She can’t know! If she knows she’ll send me off to a shrink or something.

She sinks to the floor on her side of the door as the tears run down her face.