Dear Niall,
July 18
Fuck you.
Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you.
I hate you, Niall.
I was supposed to die. I was ready to die. You screwed it up, Niall. Fuck you.
Sincerely,
Elle
Dear Elle,
July 18
Oh my god, Elle. What were you thinking? Suicide?
I don't know what you're going through, but suicide is not the answer.
You weren't letting me in, and I was worried, so I snuck in through your window. At first, I thought you were asleep. You were, sort of. You were in that tired, drowsy, unaware state between asleep and awake. I touched you and your body was unnaturally cold, and so I felt your pulse. You barely had one.
My eyes darted around the room, landing on an empty pill bottle. I screamed then, and it was all I could do not to break down. I called an ambulance first, and then did as they instructed. I sat behind you and placed you between my legs. Then, I did my best attempt at the heimlich maneuver. You came out of your unaware, half-asleep state. You screamed and cried and vomited. We were one big mess of tears.
Love,
Niall
