After You

Alfie

Dear Willow, Jacob, Finn, Max and Jess,

If you're reading this letter, the first thing I must do is apologise. If my plan doesn't work, I'll tear up this letter, so the fact that you're reading this presumably means that I did it, and I assume that you are – rightly – furious with me.

I've been furious with myself for a long time, which is part of the reason why you're reading this letter now. Sometimes, when you're angry, you can take a deep breath and let it all dissipate. Sometimes it builds and builds until you can't take it any more, and you explode.

The thing is, not all explosions are huge spectacles with immense noise and mass panic. Sometimes it's quiet, and the fallout comes for those who survived the initial blast. That will be my death. A silent explosion, and a nuclear winter. I'll slip away without a second thought, leaving you all to deal with whatever comes next.

I can imagine you all shaking your heads, wearing identical rueful grins. "That's our Alfie," you'll say affably. "That's our adorable hipster douchebag Alfie, romanticising everything". Or maybe you're reading this and resisting the urge to crumple my letter into a little ball, because you're all so angry at me. Perhaps you aren't resisting, maybe you've stopped reading already. Maybe all of you are reading this. Maybe only one of you is. I'll never know.

Fuck.

Suicide isn't selfish, I've never thought it was, but this – what I'm doing to all of you right now – this is selfish. To leave a note in the pocket of a jacket you might never look in. To leave so many unanswered questions. It's like some kind of sick, twisted treasure hunt. Who am I kidding? You aren't going to think "that's our adorable hipster douchebag Alfie". You're going to throw this letter away and realise that even in death, I'm an arsehole.

I'm sorry. Not just for the stupid letter and the stupid sodding hiding place, but for everything. For doing this. Part of me wants to say I wish I hadn't, but I can't see another way out. It sounds like whiny emo bullshit but it's true. Everything is so screwed up.

Please don't blame yourselves. I mean, it's probably a moot point as I have no doubt you will blame yourselves anyway – another reason why this is such a shit, selfish thing for me to do – but it is really, truly not your fault. I wish I could have sat down with each of you and told you this, but you would have tried to stop me. It's easier this way. And there I go, being selfish again. It's easier for me. It's certainly not easier for you.

Jacob. It feels easiest to start with you; probably because I've known you my entire life, and you've known me for all but four minutes of yours. Well, I say that this will be the easiest, but the words aren't coming. How do you say goodbye to someone who shares almost all of your DNA? "Almost, but not all", you'd remind me frequently.

I'm sure we'd be of interest to those twin research people. What is it in those tiny DNA differences that means that I am doing this, and you are not? Is it nature or nurture? At the end of the day, does any of this really matter?

Of course it doesn't. I have no idea how quickly this will work. I might not reach the end of this letter. Now there's a real hipster douchebag thing to do – leaving my suicide note on a cliffhanger. I feel that I should state right now that if I don't finish this letter, it's not for dramatic effect. There's just so much to say, and not enough time to say it in.

J, please look after Mum and Dad. I know that's a massive request, and I feel like an arsehole for even asking it, but I know this is going to be so painful for them. I don't want them to blame themselves either. There's nothing they could have done differently. I'd have left a note for them – in fact, I tried – but what do you say? "Thanks for giving me life, sorry I'm throwing it away because I'm not happy with it". It's like some kind of fucked up ungrateful Christmas thank-you card.