Hi.
I’m Serenity.
Spelt with, well, an ‘S.'
But you already knew that.
My name, it means calm.
Maybe that’s why you were so attracted to me. Maybe, just maybe, you were wishing for something to take the edge off your hell of a life, and to you, I was the calm after the storm.
I never responded back then, never had the strength to lift a pencil and write one fucking word. So here I am, just a more-than-flawed girl writing to a less-than-perfect boy. Every day, when the letters came in through the window, or in my mailbox, or hidden beneath the doormat, I’d get this little spark in my gut, like life was a video game and I’d earned an extra life.
My lives built up.
Then fell down.
One bullet, piercing through the middle.
Crash.
Leaving me with only one tiny, pumping, pixel of a heart.
The doctors cut me open, peeled back my blubber-filled skin, just to see how brittle my bones were, as dense as cotton candy, no fat to protect my lifeline, no shield for the knot of veins.
So they sent me away.
Rehabilitation is okay, I suppose. When they asked me who I wanted to send my first letter to, I didn’t hesitate to answer, “Him.” X, you, the hidden treasure.
One night, when I was reading your letters, I remember you wrote, because, when I write, there’s always an eraser.
Well, guess what?
I’m writing in pen.
And it may get smudged, but I don’t care, because it’ll be there forever, a certainty, a little hope to hold onto.
None of that never-ending love shit—at this point, there’s no reason for you, or anyone else, to love me.
But, who knows, maybe you’ll write back?
In pen.
Because where I am, there’s no whiteout.
