I was full of hope when you sent me that piece of writing. Full of a damned sense of optimism that it would be some amazing piece of prose that shed some light on…something. I don’t really know what I was hoping for. Nothing quite like what you sent me, that’s for sure. But I know I definitely didn’t know you felt that way. Why didn’t you ever tell me?

Why didn’t you ever tell me that you were battling between me and…her? Why didn’t you ever ask me what was going on between us? You say now that you wanted to know what went on between the two of us, but you never asked. All you had to do was ask.

And you say that you were battling between the two of us, how do you think I felt? What do you think I was going through during that period? I expect you think I was having a walk in the park, ‘torturing’ you with my dreadful reputation. You probably think I was having ‘fun’ and ‘laughing’ in her face because I had you to myself for however long it was. You’re so closed minded about that time. You don’t have a damn clue!

You might have gone through shit back then, but I went through hell. I walked paths I never thought I would see, partly because it was a small miracle I was alive back then. I didn’t want to drag my sorry carcass out of bed every morning. I didn’t want to come to school and see her smiling and laughing and having fun with you and all the people I used to call ‘friend’. She’s a sadistic bitch, and you chose her!

Well I suppose it was the natural choice. She was the life of the party, she was happy and fun and care free. She had friends, she had good grades and she had a life. What did I have that you wanted? I was boring and stayed indoors all of the time, I wasn’t happy, though I pretended to be. I wasn’t any fun at all, and I had so much on my mind. I didn’t have friends, my grades were never good enough, and I didn’t have a life.

Every day that I shared the same oxygen as her in the library or in the classroom, I just wanted to die. I wanted to die anyway. She made my life a living hell, and you can’t even see it. You can’t fucking see it because you want to believe that you chose the best person. Okay, live with that lie. If it makes you fucking happy, you can live with the lie that she is any better than me.

All this time, you have kept your eyes closed and blind to my pain. I screamed out to you, I tried to get you to realise how much anguish I was feeling back then. It wasn’t just mental anguish, and it wasn’t just social torture, but it’s alright, I know you don’t care.

I know you don’t care about how many times I took a bitter blade and pulled it furiously across my wrist. And I know you don’t care about how many nights I cried myself to sleep because of how she had made me so depressed each day. Each day I lived was a day I spent wishing I could just die. It wasn’t a life, it was an existence.

Yeah, you probably did choose the better person I suppose. It just frustrates me that you can lay all of this on me, and expect me to take it and understand it. It wasn’t me you were talking to when you were writing that, I understand that much. You were writing that to her, because somehow she’s…I don’t know, twisted things, and twisted you so that you would favour her.

She has you wrapped around her little finger.

I’m not saying that the whole incident between us was all her fault; I was partly to blame too. And while I was reading your piece, I did begin to think I was seeing your point of view, and I did begin to think that yes, it was probably me that set it all off. But the way you wrote it there; you wrote it as though it was my entire fault, and that I was the one that caused you so much pain.

As far as you’re concerned, my reputation was dragging you down. But how is that my fault? You could have chosen to ignore other people’s cruel taunts and insults, and just accepted who I was. Instead, you listened to them and the pressure of fitting in and being accepted by a majority, killed you. I thought you were better than that.

I could send this to you and gather your reaction from this, figure out where you stand now, but I just don’t think I will somehow. After all these fights and the years of pointless disputes between everyone, the childish tit for tat games we fought; my perspective doesn’t seem worth a crap really. I don’t seem worth a crap.

You’d be angry at me for thinking like this, you’d look down at me from your perch of holiness and godliness, and tell me that I’m being stupid, that you value me just as much as you value her. You know I don’t believe it, and it wouldn’t surprise me if you didn’t believe it either.

I can’t start anymore fights now though, not between us, I’m comfortable with the illusion I had that our friendship meant something to you.

So for now, this will be my conclusion to a series of plain misunderstandings and tribulations, the dilemmas of teenage life.