Miss Mayhem

xxxiv. the letter

xxxiv. the letter 

     HIS EYES SLOWLY scanned across his name, again and again and again.  It was addressed to him but he wasn't sure if he was going to open it.  He was worried, scared partially, that he would hate what he read or that it would frighten him.  He was curious and terrified of what words could be written on the page; what they could combine together and say. 

Before long, he closed his eyes while his fingers opened the seal.  It popped open without any troubles, which lead him to believe he was meant to read whatever was inside the thick envelope.  He kept his eyes closed, still, as he pulled out the thick stack of papers and at last, he opened them, his eyes soon falling on the words written across the page in black ink. 

Denver, 

I would address this as "to whom it may concern" but I already know who this concerns.  I already know the people that are going to be hurt; I already know the people that aren't going to be affected.  I guess I just didn't know who else to give this to; I didn't know who else would have wanted to read my departing words. 

I've read so many of these kinds of letters and I know how cliche they can be . . . but I just can't bring myself to really say anything different than what others have already said.  I can't really word it any other way than goodbye and I'm sorry . . . but in a way, I'm still not. 

Nothing anyone would have told me could have prevented this, so don't go carrying yourself around saying it's your fault for what happened to me.  It's probably because of the agony; partially because I didn't say anything about what Nathaniel did for so many years because I honestly didn't know that anyone would ever care. 

There's a reason I jumped . . . because I didn't want you to see my body, my lifeless, motionless body and have to carry about the rest of your life that burdening last memory of me.  I just want you to know that even if you wanted me to stay, I couldn't . . . because my life is over and eventually, even time is going to stop. 

My heart is no different, Denver. 

I know you, Jackson, David and even Scotland all tried to help me . . . but I want you to know that there's nothing anyone could've done to stop this.  I know it's crazy that it works this way but if you don't think about it, you'll be able to move on and forget about me.  That's all I want for the club; I want you all to move on with life and forget all about my existence. 

I wish I could promise that everything would be alright.  I wish I could have promised myself that.  Everyone always told me that time would heal my pain . . . but Denver, it's been seven years since he raped me.  I'm twenty years old; when does the pain and suffering and self loathing stop?  When does the anger finally release itself and quit, like my heart was supposed to?

In truth, I suppose I always knew the pain would never go away.  I've endured enough of it, for long enough, to know that I'm probably one of the few people that realizes this and accepts this fact . . . and even though nothing I could possibly tell you would make this okay, you deserve to know what happened to me.  You deserve to know this the most. 

You've been there, Denny.  You've watched me those nights in bed, while I thrash myself around and cry out for help.  You've woken me up and held me those nights; you're the only person that has ever done that for me.  It's not only because you're the only one that I let do that . . . but you're the only one that's ever cared to put forth the effort and try. 

I've never felt the relief of acceptance or love or friendship or the kind of feeling a family has for each other before.  The reason I stayed around the club for the first week or two was for the money but then Jackson opened up to me and I realized that this club is more than just a group of outlaw men and women that need some cash or protection.