Whose Letter Is This?

PROLOGUE

❝The world is a book and those who do not travel read only one page.❞ -St. Augustine

08/18/12

Dear self,

Four years ago, you're carefree, shy yet confident enough and so you.

Four years ago, I liked being you.

But not until now.

I'm not proud of being you anymore, really. But it's not like I have a choice. I'm stuck. I don't understand why people don't stop making you feel like shit. But if I was like anybody else, I wouldn't like you either. But for some unknown reason, it feels as though pity washed over me.

Teenage years are probably the most dramatic stage of human life. It's like the thin shield protecting your heart is slowly peeling off, leaving your heart exposed and sensitive.

Afraid, insecure, incomplete, tired and lost; words that are flying around your soul. I don't know how they got there, how they got into you... I don't know.

The pain is still there, completely banging your heart into numb whenever you recall that very day when it all started.

 You were sitting across your classmates, pretending as though you’re actually okay being there. But you failed, anyway. You looked like an awkward fucktard, which I think, attracted humiliating attention, an evil’s radar.

Judgmental faces were laughing at your flaw.

It started with one. Then two. Three. Four, five, six… and suddenly, they were all looking. Combining and forming like a big stone of humiliating air, slowly yet painfully radiating your heart’s flesh.

You wanted to disappear. To drift away together with the pain. But you couldn’t.

Every now and then, each day seems like hell. Every time you wake up, the thought of seeing people makes you scared. Your self-esteem’s decreasing and almost fading. I guess it already did. That’s when you started losing interest in life. And hopelessness started kicking in.

I made you promise to me that you’re going to stay away from people until you have your flaw fixed. You did stay away. But it didn’t fix anything at all. Isolating yourself didn’t help one bit. It gave you more time to hate yourself. And that hate grew a monster inside you.

I was so worried and afraid of you from then on. And I can’t handle this fear anymore.

So I might as well wash away all your pain. And shut down this damn war. And end this monster.

Right now.

Sincerely,

 Me

As I stare blankly at the paper, my mind wouldn’t stop wandering.

My fingers trailed the yellowish paper. Old and almost crumpled. I scanned it one more time and the letter itself gave me goose bumps. The date says it was written 2 years ago. I felt my tears threatening while reading it.

The author wrote it to herself. And it could be anything. This could be an entry from a journal or worse, a suicide note. My heart dropped at the thought.

“And end this monster. Right now.”

Whoever wrote this letter could be possibly dead as of now. But no. She could be alive too. I wondered what happened after she wrote this. It felt odd holding this letter. I’m holding the paper she once touched and used to pour her thoughts. This letter wasn’t a biography but it contains a lot about the person.

People made this person so fragile. I don’t know why I felt furious. The ability of people to destroy a person is so powerful. It seemed like I know the feeling, like I was the person who wrote this.

I folded the letter carefully.

Who is this person? Where is she now?

 © 2014 by MysteryPisser All rights reserved.

A/n: so I was thinking of making this a short story but with, like, chapters but shorter. hope you people out there will like/ like this so far.  i'm currently writing the next part. just so you know. :)