Dear Elena,
I bought a paper this morning,
And it had something devastating in it.
It usually does,
But it wasn't news of a car accident
Or a new shooting
Over something tentative.
I flipped through it
Quickly, hands shaking from fear
To the obituary page.
At the top, your picture
Captioned with your name
And a piece of your suicide note.
It didn't mention me.
It mentioned crying for hours
And questioning yourself,
And hopelessness.
I know it's my fault.
I know you know it's my fault.
I'm so sorry.
Love, Ida
YOU ARE READING
Ida
Short StoryIda Whitney- A twenty four year old 911 operator in Eugene by day, and a crumbling lie by night.
