Dear Lost Love

Chapter Three

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Dedicated to WetBelle because I love her story Seven Days.

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Barging into my room, I threw my backpack down and sent everything on my dresser crashing to the floor. The vase full of blood, red tulips slammed into the wooden flooring and broke into what seemed like unfixable pieces. I stared at the sharp jagged glass and didn't even realize I'd started crying until my vision blurred.

That's my heart, I thought, unable to look away from the little shards. Broken beyond repair.

I collapsed against the wall in a heap and sobbed into my arms. How could he? How could he do that to me? I'd given him everything. And he'd thrown it all back in my face.

He couldn't have hurt me more if he'd tried.

My head lifted a little and I glanced over at the glass pieces. I wondered what it'd feel like, picking one up and dragging it across my wrist. If what all those cutters said was really true. That it felt good, to let the blood flow away with the hurt, to overwhelm the emotional pain with the physical.

I crawled over to it and picked up one wet shard. The tulips lay on top of the water and glasses, still so beautiful and perfect. But it would begin to wilt and end up black and shriveled. It would end up like me.

Do it, Rachel. Cut open the skin of your wrist, bleed out that vein, stain your arms red, drown the world with your blood. Show him how much he's hurt you. The voice in my head was speaking to me, taunting me with her words and I positioned the glass over my wrist.

Do it. Melanie is at lacrosse. Your parents are at work. Stefan is still in school. You have this house to yourself, to do as you please.

But I stopped at the nick of time. I couldn't do this to myself. It'd hurt my family - it would crush my father. I couldn't put him through that, not after everything he'd been through.

Sniffing, I cleaned up the glass carefully and wiped down the floor before collapsing on the chair at my desk. I wanted to hurt Ben back, but I didn't know how. How could I make him feel what he made me feel? The thing was, I couldn't. I had no leverage against him.

I wiped a lone tear from my cheeks and took out a piece of notebook paper. He had to know how much he'd hurt me. He needed to know the pain he put me through. He deserved to feel the burden of the guilt of crushing someone's heart into smithereens.

I put a pen to the paper and began to write.