Twenty Different People

0.5

Letter five | Brooklyn Winston

Dear Brooklyn,

Once upon a time, I loved you.

I loved your long, honey blonde hair and the little specks of freckles that patterned onto your face ever so delicately. I loved how carefree you expressed yourself. But most importantly, I loved how comfortable you were in your own skin.

Maybe I said it too fast, because one day, you suddenly...changed. Perhaps it was out of curiosity? I don't even know. Well, funnily enough, I should. I was your best friend after all. I knew everything about you, but suddenly one day it was just, I don't even know? Now we're just like strangers but with distant memories.

Do you still remember the days where you laughed until your stomach ached and didn't give a flying care in the world when people looked at you funny? Or when you showed up to school in the frizziest, most ridiculous hairstyle and still liked it without even acknowledging the laughter of people, calling you odd and strange?

I'm sure you do remember, it's just that you don't want to. You don't want to remember the girl you were in the past, no, you don't need to. But, let me ask you one thing. Why did you get rid of her? Do you remember how in the opening of this letter I said that I loved you? No. I didn't love you. I loved Brooklyn, not this new girl who claimed to be Brooklyn. Not this girl I didn't even recognise. 

I remember when you showed up to school that day. I'm sure everyone does, actually. Especially Amelia. You'd dyed your hair a fancy, rich brunette colour which had brought out the shine in your green eyes. You wore a top that covered almost nothing, paired with a black skirt that made every guy drool. Your heels clicked loudly everywhere you go. You smirked as people took photos, and smirked even harder when you saw the jealousy seethe out from Amelia.

If it had been a cartoon, you could almost see the steam coming out from Amelia's nose and ears as her face flushed a deep crimson. Anyways, it wasn't like it bothered you anyway. What did bother you though, was the fact that I tried to talk to you. Why?

"Brooklyn! Woah. Wait, am I even talking to the Brooklyn Winston right now? Sorry, I must've gotten the wrong pers-"

"Yeah, it's me. Hard to believe, right Louisa?" you say, with the most daring tone in your voice.

"O-Oh. It's really you? Wow. I never thought..."

"Listen, because I'm all this now," you say, pointing up and down your figure, "I don't need people like you hanging onto me anymore in my life. I'd like to start a clean slate, and if you're still confused and in need of a definition, it means piss off and never talk to me again."

I thought that it was just the end. You changed. What's more to it? Well, it was just the beginning of my hell. You'd dragged me to the rooftop after school. There, seven girls stood, laughing to each other as they saw my distressed state. I did after all, be beat to a pulp after I refused to go with you.

"Why am I here?" I ask, my voice hoarse, barely even recognisable to myself. 

I hear the deafening, shuddering click of a lock from behind me. Angling my head quickly towards the source of the noise, I see a tall girl smirk triumphantly as she guards the door. 

"Bet up ladies!" you yelled, half giggling. You drew out a small knife from the pocket of your jeans. My blood had ran cold and I had internally begged for you to stop.

"Fifty dollars to make her scream," someone yelled. 

"One hundred to-"

The list went on. It wasn't until you stopped at two-hundred and fifty eight dollars. A short, stubby girl had peered out, holding out a few scrunched notes. You laughed loudly and gladly took the money. God, that was the worst night of my life, and some things just shouldn't be repeated. 

I don't really know what your intentions were in the first place. However, if anyone had ever asked if I'd regretted meeting you, I'd say no. You were a friend to me, one that I truly treasured. I really thought different of you. I guess I'm always too quick to make assumptions. I hope that by receiving this letter, reading throughout the perspective of another will help you change your thoughts and I'll say this as my last words to you. I'll never be able to forgive you, Brooklyn.

Because you are the fifth reason why I killed myself.