My Sweet Disaster

Third Letter.

2:22 PM
28 March 2013

Chris,

I know this letter won't reach to you. My mother put me in a house arrest. 

It's been exactly ten hours since I'm sitting motionless in my room. As you won't see this right now, I'm writing all those feelings down. Because I decided it. Yes, the last decision. Full and final.

Last night, I tried to cut myself again and then you came, ruffled my hair and told me "You have to live." You stopped me from cutting those useless fleshes of mine. You know what hurts? When the people who should be the one rescuing you turns out to be the one destroying you. Who ruins you. Piece by piece. And I hate it. So much that I burnt almost every paints I have ever drawn. I know it'll hurt you. I haven't burnt down your ones though. 

Christian, I miss those school days. When you and I used to prank people. I was never that cheesy but still I had so much fun then. Those days when my mother had work, I had home works and other things. When she didn't give a damn about me. I cry everyday when I realize those days were gone.

You see, I'm writing very harshly; my blurred eyes cannot see everything clearly. These letters look horrible. The bruises of my hand are hurting me. The bleeding just stopped. I don't know how long I have to stay here like this. I'm spending my day with my laptop and iPod. They are all I have since you're gone.

I'm starting to think, what if I die? That'll be so much good for me. Because there's nothing left now. This sadness is eternal. As long as I'm breathing this will hunt me down. I'm destroyed to  the point that if I breathe I might burn this world. 

The only option for me is to die. Death is my answer. It's just sad that in this eighteen years there was not one thing I did that was noteworthy. I bet nobody is going to come to my funeral. Which is good for my mother, she doesn't have to pay for the arrangements. 

Since you won't see this now, I decided to kill myself after I graduate. Yes, I'm sorry. I can't do this anymore. Maybe I was not born to do something. Like all men, I was born to die.

I can't wait for the April sun, the hot weather and ice-cream season. I love you and I want to spend the rest 180 days wondering about how much you liked me and I liked you. I want you and your brother to listen to my bad jokes, tease me and talk to me with a loving tone and sparkling eyes.

Yes, that's my last wish. I want to be loved. That's all I ever asked to anybody. But nobody listens. They never try to. I am just a plastic bag, drifting through the wind wondering to start again. (It's from a Katy Perry song, sue me.)

At the end of the day, I am no one.

Love,
Ave.