dear jerome,

four

march 4th, 2013

you didn't even get to experience your twentieth birthday you bastard. happy four weeks dead, prick. today's topic because there always seems to be one with these letters: your suicide. i made another list of facts, this time more relevant to your suicide.

1. you did it with pills

2. your sister found you

3. there was an unfinished hunger games on your computer

4. there wasn't even a letter

5. the day before, we went ice skating

was it the ice skating? did it remind you of your already fragile state, just waiting to break under the pressure? let me tell you something you selfish bastard, (i hate you today) your sister still isn't okay. she's almost as not-okay as i am, because she fucking found your already cold, clammy, lifeless body. you didn't even think to write a letter, did you? but that's the thing; you didn't think. you didn't think about your job, your family, your friends, you didn't even fucking think about me. or did you?

i'm done with what-ifs. i've accepted the fact that you are as dead as dead can be, and there is no going back. today i visited the teamcrafted house. they were happy, oh so happy, because they did their mourning in a span of two days. they forgot what you were to them, they viewed you as someone who killed themself, not as the bubbly person they once knew. that's how they chose to remember you. or, not remember. i left within minutes after realizing how shallow and conceited they had all become. nothing like they were with you around.