One Hundred Letters for James

035

035:

Intensive Care Unit

I did it again, James. I fucked up. Big time.

All this talk of you and Ryan and all this other stuff has made me completely forget about Farah. My roommate who had been gone for almost two weeks.

I got a call from the hospital at 9:30 last night. They called me because I was one of the only numbers in her phone. I don't know why. I've never called her.

They said that they found her in an alley.

She had a black eye, and her wrist was seriously fractured. Her clothes were torn and she wasn't wearing any shoes.

She'd been raped.

I don't know by who. I don't know where she was. I don't know anything about Farah.

I don't know anything.

I'm writing this from the ICU. It's cold, and too white, and it smells strongly of antiseptic.

I know this isn't your fault. But it is your fault that I didn't think to call her and ask where she was, because you plagued my mind and maybe if you'd call me or text me or email me or send me a fucking messenger pigeon I don't care, I just want to hear from you, maybe then I'd know that you were okay.

They just told me that they don't know if she's going to wake up.

I guess I'm not going to class tomorrow, because I'm not going to leave her under any circumstance.

I heard once that the comatose can hear you. Do you think she can hear me crying right now?

I think I'm goon to call Ryan tomorrow. I miss him.

I feel like Farah. She can't talk, can't move, she's paralyzed.

I feel paralyzed. By you, by the thought of you, and it makes me sad that I ever thought you actually cared about me. Because obviously you don't.

They said she could be like this for months.

I guess I've always wanted a dorm to myself.