The Sister Of Popular

Epilogue: Letters

Dear Thomas,

Today is the second of February and you're not here and I'm a mess.

You've gone to some smart kid thing in London or something, and I'm so happy for you, and I'm being clingy here, aren't I? But I can't talk to you since you don't have a mobile, and you thought I would be alright, but I'm dying here. I feel like crap and I went to Dr. Hansen today and I told him that I feel like crap and I told him that it isn't easy and I told him that I have nobody around again and I told him that I am messed up and I told him that it's crawling up on me again, those stupid demons, and I told him that I feel like I'm slipping and I told him that I want to get better but it's not working and I told him that it's hard to tell when I'm dying and I told him that nobody can see and I told him that it's all in my head and I told him that I'm so damn messed up and I just need to get it out of me.

Then, he just randomly said that I should write to you. Which is kind of ridiculous, because nobody has sent a letter in a million years and it's too embarrassing to write something like this down, and I tell him that, and then he just says, "well, you don't have to send the letter."

Which is true.

But I need something to attack and talk to and a blank bit of paper is nothing, but I'm going to follow Dr. Hansen. Because he's helped me. And I think I am a bit better than the days a few months ago, and it did get a lot better, and I could smile. But now those thoughts are back and I'm going to do it I'm going to do it I'm going to do it-

I can imagine you correcting my grammar right now.

Right, I've calmed down a bit. It's like I'm really talking to you. Is that insane? I'm insane. I'm insane and I'm insane. I'm insane and I'm insane and I'm insane and I just have to deal with it. I've just had a bad day and it's just a bad day, not a bad life. This is really messed up, isn't it? Just like me, and I can feel my eyes wanting to find silver, but I'm not letting them. I'm just focusing on this page, this useless sheet of paper ripped out of a notebook with a neon green gel pen being scrawled onto it (it was the only colour I could find). I'm never going to show you this, of course not. This is just freaky. And I'm mental. And I feel like crap and I feel like crap.

Do I really have to be alive if this keeps coming?

Do they have a surgical operation to get these thoughts out of my head? I hate them. I hate them. I hate myself and I hate them. But it's just the stupid depression getting to me and I still hate my life and I hate everything and I hate myself and I hate Levi and I hate myself and I don't care if Levi's changed I can't forgive him that makes me messed up oh my god this is why I can't be a writer.

You can get through this, Lexi. Just breathe, you would say.

I'm breathing (and I still feel like crap).

I'm breathing. I'm alive.

I am a mess.

Love, Lexi.

***

Dear Thomas,

Today is the fifth of March, and I talked to you today, so I don't know why I'm writing this. I just dug up that letter I wrote last month, and I left it on a cliffhanger. You would hate cliffhangers, I know, so I'm just writing down that I'm okay today and I'm going to try to be okay tomorrow.

Love, Lexi.

***

Dear Thomas,

Today is the third of April, and it's the start of the holidays'. I'm going to spend tomorrow in Birmingham with my friend Miki, and I've missed her so much. I spent today with Holly and Robs, while you went to watch some horror movie (who would have thought you liked horror movies, you geek? Joking that's a term of affection don't worry) and we went to try on high heels and old-lady dresses, and we tried on these hipster glasses and Holly stepped in some dog poo.