The Dying Story (Chasing Illusions #3) | A Novel

Chapter 7

Dear Emily,

If this package reach you, then it means I'm dead. I know that you are probably now distraught, filled with questions of why I decided to kill myself. There's so many reasons, but the main one is that I can't find any meaning in my life anymore. 

I tried very hard for many years, driving myself mad with trying to find the way out of this darkness. I finally end up trying to write this story called The Ending of Vena. Years and years I try to write the story, but no matter how hard I try, I either rewrite it, or I can't find the ending. At this moment, I now know why I can't write the ending of this story—because I don't believe in any ending that would help me answer my biggest question, the question that would stop me from choosing this option.

I know you, and many people won't understand what does it mean for one to lose meaning in life. That's why with the electronic version of this story in the hard drive, I decided to place my journals together with it. Vena, the main character of this story, was composed heavily from my soul, from my untold emotions and thoughts. To understand Vena, you must understand me. You must understand the side of me that I hid from everybody.

I no longer can go on, Emily. I don't see any reason to continue on anymore. But Vena, I can't bear to leave her the way she is. I want her to have an ending to her story, one that can save her.

So, even if you hate me for leaving this world, Emily, I beg you to help me continue the story. Give Vena the ending she deserves. You are the only person I trust to do all her best to understand me, to understand my story, to understand what I wanted to portray in this story. Nobody but you can do this.

Once again, I'm sorry. No amount of sorry would be enough to replace what I'm going to do.

But I hope you understand nevertheless.

Love,
Charlotte.

For a long moment, I can't take my eyes off the letter, but I also can't digest it completely. What...what in the actual world is this?

I put the letter aside, almost wanting it to be a figment of my imagination. I looked blankly ahead of me, not registering the sofa in front of me or anything really. Despite of Luca's fur brushing against me as she walked away, I froze there, as if time had stopped the moment I read finish the letter.

For some reason, I somehow manage to gather the strength, which I use to get to the package. Opening it, I find about ten journals and one leather-bound notebook that seems to be for a completely different purpose. I open the notebook, and I see all the notes that Charlotte wrote for The Ending of Vena. There are some illustrations aside too, where Charlotte drew characters with specific details beside them. It's her handwriting, her drawing style.

I close my eyes, before I try to feel for the pockets in the leather-bound cover. I found the flash drive.

God, this is really happening. My friend, Charlotte, who decidedly killed herself sent me a load of her journals and a story that she didn't finish? It sounds very outlandish as I say in my mind, but it is present right now, with the ripped packaging paper and the books in front of me. And this flash drive.

I collect the books and place them on the table, which I finally put the flash drive on the top of the pile of books. I stare at it, before walking back to the door and taking the letter. Placing it underneath the flash drive, I turn away from it.

This is too much. I don't know what to think about this. If she has the time to do all of these preparations...why doesn't she tell me anything about what happened?

I clench my fists, feeling the unfair feeling surfaced from where I buried it. Ever since her funeral, I try to empathize. I try to tell myself that Charlotte perhaps didn't have any other ways. I try to tell myself that she didn't know how to open up, like me, and so she couldn't help but choose the last way out.

But if so, why give me her journals? If she could let me read what she was feeling before she chose to die, why never gave me the chance to know it before? Why never let me try to help her, even if it may never come to do anything about her situation?

I stare back at what she sent me, and something in me wanted to destroy it. Throttle it out of the window. Instead of doing that, I walk to the sofa, lied on it with my arm over my eyes.

When I got up, I ignore my wet arm and got back to work. I see the pile of those notebooks again, and it distract me from completing my work. I eventually take out a box to keep all of them, but as I hold the flash drive, ready to pack it in with the rest, I find myself wanting to know what she wrote. Despite being upset with her, I want—no, need—to know why this story is so important to her.

Fifteen minutes, I finally tell myself. I'll read for fifteen minutes and then I'll work. That's all I'll give for now.

So I plug the flash drive into my laptop and open the only file on there.

There, I read the words that would led me to take up the pen and fulfill Charlotte's request.