Dear Dan,
Why did you tell me it was okay?
That's the main question I have – and trust me, I've been thinking about things a lot.
I did plenty of fucked up things, and I knew it wasn't fine. But I guess I thought that if you didn't say anything I could keep doing it.
So, I just want to tell you I'm sorry. I'm sorry for making you wait up on me all night. I'm sorry for the tears that fell down your pretty face when you lied down for bed.
I'm sorry for treating you like a chore. You really weren't. I'm sorry for yelling at you when I came home from the bar.
And I'm sorry that I pushed you to where you are now. Out of this life and into the grave.
I cried out tears you'll never see. I was there, you know? At the funeral. Right at the front next to your mother.
She cried and cried. I felt so guilty standing next to her, knowing I took her son away.
She didn't deserve this. This isn't about me and how sad I am how you are gone. It is about I am the worst person alive.
I took away a loving brother, a beautiful son, a caring man.
And you know what they say: A tooth for a tooth, an eye for an eye, and a son for a son.
I won't be able to see you in the afterlife. You were an angel and I'm the perfect candidate for Hell. I was practically destined for it.
May the fires scorch my heart.
-Phil.
