The Suicide Letters

The Third Letter

To The Girl With the Black Hair,

I sat here for a long time, trying to decide how best to answer your questions. Death has sort of become an obsession of mine, I guess.

I don't quite know where the line is drawn between a fascination and obsession, exactly. If I daydream about it, does that make it an obsession? I wonder sometimes, what it would feel like, death.

Would it feel peaceful? I think it would. 

Anyway.

Sure, I'll tell you the crap of my life. Why not, right? But the thing is, I've heard how normal your life is. I know that your crap pales in comparison to mine. So why would I tell you all these nasty gross things, if you're just going to tell me your secrets, which are going to be that the next line of jeans that's coming out this fall is going to be all wrong.

So, here's the deal. How about, I don't tell you anything, okay?

And you can go back to your perfect little house and your perfect little family, and you can just stay out of my life.

How about that?

<Levi> 

I'm so mad my hands are literally shaking as I read the letter. I set it down next to me on the desk and crack all my knuckles before opening up a new Word document and proceeding to stare at it for five minutes.

I scratch my head, pissed off, before getting up. I can't think of anything to say that could possibly convey the annoyance and anger I'm currently feeling. 

I walk downstairs, and pull my jacket closer around me as I grab a mug from the cabinet and pour some orange juice into it. Katrina comes running downstairs, and I glance over at the clock. It's seven o'clock, and then I realize that it's Friday and everything comes together.

"Bye, Mel!" She yells as a pair of headlights enter the driveway and she runs out to the car. 

"Bye, Kat!" I call and then open the front door and wave to Mark. "Hey, Mark!"

He waves back before they take off, and I walk back into the kitchen to put my orange juice back into the fridge. My parents are both working tonight, so the house is mine it seems.

I mount the stairs, mug in hand, to go back to my laptop and attempt to figure out how to best answer him. I stare at the blinking line for a few seconds, urging me to write something before slamming my hand down on the desk next to the computer. 

A frustrated yell escapes my lips as it comes into contact with the hard surface. And all of a sudden, I know what to say to this boy I've barely spoken to, that I've really only written to. This boy who has no right to talk to me in this way.

Levi,

How dare you.

How dare you.

Look, here's the thing, Levi. I do have struggles. I have nightmares every night, thank you very much. Nightmares from a very real incident that I sturggle with everyday.

So, yes. I may have a mother and father who love me. I live in a nice house. I have my happy moments.

But the deal is, I wake up screaming in the middle of the night. I wake up terrified and frightened. 

Every single person on this earth struggles with their own battles and their own demons. Every one. Whether they be big or small to anyone else, they're still demons, and they still have to fight them.