Dear Annie

Dear Annie,

I hate you. I just thought I should let you know that.

I mean, who the hell writes a suicide note on cute, Japanese stationary anyway? How inconsiderate can you get? Maybe you did it for the irony, so that while we read the most heart-wrenching thing any of us would ever have to bear we’d be confronted with anime-eyed puppies. I’d almost believe it except that I know you’re too daft to appreciate the irony in that, and you only did it because even when you didn’t think you had anything left to live for you still liked writing pretty letters.

I still can’t believe that you, of all people, would think about suicide. You always thought about everyone else first, and surely you must have thought about how it would affect Mum. Remember when I was six, and Rex died? And Mum cried for days and days, and was inconsolable. And she wanted to create a shrine in our backyard for him, because a plain, old grave wasn’t enough for a dog as loyal as he was. And Dad was the only person who could convince her not to fork out hundreds to buy a place in the pet cemetery. Think about how badly she’s missing you right now.

Why did you have to write a letter at all? Yeah, sure, you might have thought you had to explain things to us, but it makes it so much harder in the long run. Everything you wrote in that letter was meant to soothe our souls and be a balm to our bruises, but the words didn’t turn out like that. When you wrote ‘this isn’t your fault, there’s nothing you could’ve done,’ all we saw was ‘you weren’t enough to keep me in this world.’ And that failure rests on our shoulders, and it will do forever.

And in this situation, you’re not the one who has to hurt anymore. We do. We have to suffer for what you’ve left behind, which is nothing. You never have to feel any pain again, but because you tried to save yourself from feeling it you created more hurt for us. I think taking your own life is the first selfish thing you have ever done. You were always the perfect child - the eldest, bright and perky, talented at everything and with countless scholastic awards to your name. If you hadn’t been cursed with absolutely no co-ordination you would’ve been on a cheerleading team, or something. That’s how peppy you were.

So how could someone as happy as you have done this?

In all respects I would have been the more likely candidate for a suicide. I’m the gothic rebel, who sneaks out at night and takes drugs. I’m the one who writes dark poetry about shattering mirrors and seeping blood and cool, shiny steel. I know that people are looking at me as I pass, whispering to each other ‘I thought she was going to be the one to fall through the cracks, not her sister.’ (Did you really fall through the cracks?) They’re whispering that I’ll never be able to live up to your memory.

It’s winter, too. They say that maybe the trees dying was what finally made you do it. They say that you thought winter was a fitting season to end it all, seeing as how dark and cold and gloomy it is. But I know you’re not like that. I know you actually love winter because it’s not hot and sticky like summer, and I know you’re not deep enough to try and plan your death so that it’s meaningful. No offence.

I bet you just did it spur of the moment. You were just sitting there - and there were some pills in the bathroom cabinet - and you thought ‘hell, why not?’ And so you drank them down with a glass of water, pleased, because with such a clean death we wouldn’t even have to wash the sheets. You weren’t even that sad, and I reckon it was just a passing fancy - and you did it for kicks as a minor indulgence - and you never really wanted to leave us - and you’re sorry so sorry - and you wish we would take you back.

Except I only think that because it hurts too much to think of it any other way, you fool, and I hate you so much it makes me sick inside.

You were always so nice. Everything about you was nice. How could such a nice, bland, caring, boring, plain, modest person do something so horrible? How could you do this? How could you do this to us?

And what the fuck are we supposed to do now? We have to have a funeral, but how long are we supposed to grieve for?

I can’t see the sadness ever stopping.

It’s like our lives have become one big black hole of despair, spiralling down into another black hole of despair, and there’s no end in sight. And you’d tell us to be happy, because that’s what the deceased would want. But now you’re the deceased and I don’t think you were thinking about our happiness at all. You can’t have been. Maybe you thought I’d be glad if you were gone, like I told you I would be so many times in the past. But I only ever said those things in anger, when we were fighting over pocket money and the last of the chocolate frogs. And, you know, that fluro pink My Little Pony we went to war over as children still sits on my shelf, sparkly strands glinting through its threadbare plastic mane. It’s not like I threw it away.

I’d let you have it now, you know.

I guess I’m going through the classic symptoms of grief. I’d give anything to have you back. I want just one last goodbye. Except I know that if I did get one more chance to see you I’d want to keep you forever, and wouldn’t let you go. If I saw you now, if you came walking in through that door, I’d throw my body on the floor and throw my arms about your knees and I’d cry into your jeans because you always ironed better than I ever could anyway. And you’d smooth my flyaway hair down and touch my raw, red, tearstained cheek with one cool hand and it would like an aloe-plant after a day in the sun, and everything would be okay.

I’m not sure of myself anymore. In the past I never wanted to listen to what you had to say, and even if I asked you a question I wouldn’t listen to the answer. Now I’d do anything. I’d stop dying my hair black and I’d throw out all my hipster jeans and I’d stop leaving my towel on the bathroom floor. I’d do anything just to have you back here with us, because you can’t imagine how much we miss you. No matter how much pain you were in it can’t possibly compare to what we feel now. We don’t even think anymore, and sometimes I’m afraid I’ve forgotten how to breathe.

I’ll be sitting at my desk at school, and one second it’ll be okay and the next my lungs will be full of water and I’ll be sinking, the sunlight slipping further and further away. Or is that what you felt everyday? And you just went on smiling at us from underneath the water because you didn’t want to open your mouth to call out for help, afraid that you might drown even faster. Maybe you thought that you were so far beneath the surface that nothing could save you. Maybe you knew that if you asked it of us we’d dive in after you, and you didn’t want to lead us all to our doom.

You idiot. We would’ve preferred that, you know. All of us could’ve gone together, and you would have had someone to hold onto when you were at your lowest, and when you felt like you were going to die. But you never even said anything. I want to see you right now and I’ll slap you and shake you and pound you into the ground and maybe that’ll knock some sense into you, and then you’ll see that you should’ve told us. And then you’ll repent and beg our forgiveness, but I don’t even know if I’ll be able to give it you because you don’t deserve it.

But I would and, oh god oh god oh god, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for all the times that I didn’t ask even though you were screaming at me for help and I’m sorry that I ignored your silent pleading in the middle of the night. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you how much I loved you every day, and I didn’t make you feel as if you were the centre of my world, because you were and you still are. I’m sorry for all the times I told you to drop dead and I’m sorry that when you laughed in response I didn’t hear the want in your voice.

Oh god, I’m sorry, and I wish you could forgive me for all the stupid things I ever thought, and maybe then you’ll come back to us. I hate that this has happened to our family, because without you we aren’t whole, and it’s like we’re walking around as a wounded soldier, with our organs trailing behind us. I hate this feeling of despair that follows us everywhere and I hate the looks that people give me that are sad and smug and satisfied and sorrowful. I hate myself more than anything and there is always bile at the back of my throat.

But most of all I hate you, because you won’t die. I want you to be dead to me.

Love.