Her Life in Letters

Letter//1

Dear Noah Rider,

You died yesterday. My Noah, my sweet loving Noah, dead. I had just started to get ready for you to take me to dinner for my birthday.

I guess I will never get to know what resturant you were going to take me to.

They said you were in a car crash, yet, your body was no where to be found. They called it the greatest dissappearing act of the whole year.

I didn't laugh at their joke.

I had to see for myself what your car looked like, I had to see if you were really gone, dead.

I remember sitting in the back of the police car. I was numb, sick to my stomach, tired, devestated. The officers try to ask me questions, but I ignored them.

When we pulled up to the scence of the crash, I wish I had just stayed home. I could've been in my bed, drowning my sorrows in a tub vannilla ice cream, but instead I was staring at your car, smashed up against the side of tree.

Roses scattered all over the ground.

My favorite flower.

A box of chocolate smushed into the ground.

My favorite dessert.

Your wind shield was shattered, your tires where flat, the air bags inflated.

Yet, there was no you.

There was your blood. Your favorite blue hoodie, torn in the door of the car. I even smelled your scent, lingering around the car. I took the hoodie, ignoring the annyoed comments from the officers.

I picked up one of the roses, but dropped it when I realized it smelled of blood.

Your blood.

Noah, I looked, I searched, everywhere. You weren't under the car. You weren't in the car. You weren't in a fifty mile radius of the car.

You were gone.

And it broke my heart.

I didn't get to see your smiling face as I opened the door for our date. I didn't get to feel your feather like kiss on my cheek, I didn't get to blush. I didn't get to spend my 21st birthday with you at some bar, drinking my first bottle of beer.

I got to see your blood on glass shards in the middle of the road.

The only thing I could think was, "Is this even your blood?"

Were you on the front step of my porch, ringing my doorbell, getting nervous because I didn't appear to be home.

But there was so much evidence that you were in fact the one who smashed the car into the tree.

Your ID and wallet laid feet away from the car. Your hoodie. Your scent. My favorite flowers and sweets. I knew all to well that you were gone, your soul and your body.

I remember coming home and just crying and crying.  I locked myself in my room, refusing to speak to my mother or father. My little brother couldn't stop crying either, he loved you too. The worst part of you dying was that everywhere I looked there was a trace of you.

My desk by my bed was covered in pictures of me and you. Smiling. I couldn't bare seeing us so happy, and now me so sad.

I burned those picture last night.

I punched things. The wall. The floor, my bed.

I screamed, I cursed, I yelled at God.

You were gone, and you took a piece of my heart with you.

More like you ripped a part of me out of my chest.

I was mad at you. I was mad that you weren't paying attention to the rode. I hated that you were so careless and got yourself killed.

Then my hatred turned into grief and sorrow. I hated myself for thinking I could've prevented something like this from happening.

But the truth is, I couldn't.

I know you with never get this letter, covered in tears, I know you will never get any of the letters that I am going to write to you.

I am basically just texting you.

But your are never going to respond.

                                                                                                                  Love,

                                                                                                                                      Carla Becker