It's seven thirty in the evening as I write my last letter to the last person I want to talk to in this earth. I close my eyes while typing every word that would pop up into my brain while I listen to sad songs, old and sad songs. I have never felt this vibe of fearlessness, but I know that this is not bravery.
Five days ago, I broke up with my girlfriend and went to my bestfriend's house, Cath. I knocked on her door like saint Peter didn't allow me to pass the gates. I was in tears when she slowly opened the door.
"What's wrong, Champ?" She asked as she placed me in her arms.
I didn't utter a word. I cried silently in her arms as she comforted me with her words. "I will always be here, Champ."
Cath knew everything about me. She knew how to make me laugh; she surely knew how to make me cry. She knew that I would take a bullet for her because I knew that she would do the same for me.
"There is something wrong with me, Cath." I whimpered. "You should kill me right now."
"There there, Champ. It's not your fault."
She let go of me and looked into my eyes.
"You're still that scared kid from second grade."
She held my hand and took my knife.
"It's really bad this time, Cath."
"Shhh. Look how bloody this knife is. It's not your fault."
"I did it again, Cath ---" I was panting. Panicking. I needed professional help.
"Champ."
"Cath, kill me now. If I be ---" I jerked my hands and shook my head a lot, but she kept a calm attitude. She really knew how to handle me well.
"Champ. Let's not get too excited now."
I took the knife out of her hand. I saw her face surprised, and she knew she was going to be next.
"Cath, I'm so sorry."
"CHAMP!"
She looked at me so well. "It's still not your fault."
Cath dropped to the floor with a knife sticking out of her chest. I was bawling my eyes out. Why should this be the curse I'm given?
I kill the ones that love me without control. I stab them with remorse until I'm the only one that could acknowledge my existence. There are no police in this town, only my conscience. There is no jail in this world, only the ground that I walk on.
So now, I write this letter the last person that I want to talk to. All these years, this is the curse they have given me. And I blamed other people for it. I blamed god. I wrote them all letters, but this letter, this last letter, I write this to myself. In this realm, the only way out of my world is that rope hanging on the ceiling. Slowly, I put my pen and paper down. About two more cars pass by as I face the mirror. Who knew hell was just one step up a chair and just like a necklace, the noose fits perfectly. I wait for three more cars to pass by before I descend. One. Their headlights go slower as I see my reflection. Two. I see my eyes scream freedom. And three. So, it was freedom.
And on the note it was written,
"Behold the hand-made of the world.
The body that no beloved will discover."
