Dear Stanley [Watty's 2019. Completed]

Last letter

Monday, June 21st

Dear Stanley,

I've begun to remember.

What happened that day.

Breeze and I were walking around New York, going to get breakfast at a little coffee shop across the street.

It wasn't in the best of locations. It wasn't luxury. It was disturbing to look at, but we only had a certain amount of money to spend so we went to the cheapest place we found. There was a man with bloodshot eyes sitting in front of the door that we had to step around.

The place reeked of weed. Of drugs. The thought of you doing them made me want to gag.

Breeze noticed my discomfort. The wound on her head was a pink color that contrasted her golden brown skin. "Do you wanna get out?" She whispered.

I shook my head. "I'm fine."

She could tell that I wasn't fine, but she didn't press the situation. She ordered two unappetizing looking donuts for us. We walked across the grubby floor to a small table in the back.

"What the fuck are you doing in here?" We spun around and saw the man who was sitting in front of the door on his feet, pointing at someone entering the place. The person who was entering was younger, full of tattoo's and piercings.

"Get outta my shop." The younger one growled. "You won't get sold it to you anymore here. Get out." He spat between clenched teeth. I was stunned into silence along with Breeze. They were talking about drugs.

But it was beginning to look very familiar. My heart spasmed and I gasped for air just as the older man threw the first punch, tackling the other person to the ground. They were too involved in their fight to notice me, struggling to breathe.

"Nicolas?" Breeze asked.

I ignored her and sprinted towards the door, dodging between the fighting men. They didn't even stop to look at me. One of them was on the ground bleeding. I don't know which one.

I kept running, Stanley, all the way until I got into my motel room. Everything was blurry and streaked with tears. I couldn't breathe, I couldn't breathe, I was dying.

And I wanted to.

I entered the bathroom and punched the feeble mirror. It cracked and my hand screamed as blood poured out but I didn't care. I punched it with all my strength until a glass shard fell loose.

Because I remembered what happened that day.

I remember what happened that day you disappeared.

And this entire time, it was all my fault.

This will be my last letter to you Stanley.