|One Last Chance
Author: Phoenix sraet PM
Everyone has their limits. It just happened that mine had a name.Rated: Fiction T - English - Romance - Words: 850 - Reviews: 2 - Follows: 1 - Published: 06-20-12 - id: 3034172
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
You probably think I moved out. What else are you supposed to think? You came home and found a letter sitting on top of a cardboard box, and the house is quiet and I didn't come say hi when you walked in. I didn't move out, I promise. You'll see.
I wanted to tell you, so many times. But then I felt ashamed. Ashamed of everything I was feeling, how I was acting, how you gave me the world and loved me and I still couldn't appreciate it. How could I tell my beautiful, wonderful, loving parents that I can't feel anything good anymore, that everything in my life is a joke, that nothing's gone how I planned it, how I wanted it to go, and I feel empty and hostile because of it?
That's not your fault. You couldn't ever control that.
There must be something so wrong with the universe.
Logan tells me that I'm smart, and beautiful, and imaginative and everything there is in the world that's good. But he's my best friend, he's obligated to say that. The thing is, he really means it, and that's what makes it so much harder to hear. Because it must be true, right?
I hear from everyone that I'm intelligent. Everyone. That I am well-spoken and smart and will go places, do great things, finish school and be somebody. That I have a rare kind of motivation and intellect and way of seeing things that not everyone possesses. The only thing is, I can't use it. I'm locked down, trapped by my own insides and my own crippling fears, and it's almost funny how that happens. How someone with so much potential can feel like it's wrapping around their neck and strangling them. That's what happened to me.
So I wanted to tell you something. Something you already know, that you've told me ever since I was old enough to understand what you were saying, and probably before that even.
I am intelligent.
I am beautiful.
I have potential.
I am funny.
I am smart.
I am creative.
And I cannot cope with this anymore.
You, Dad, are amazing. You supported me and paid for the first few years of my college and you never gave up on me no matter how many times I changed my major and it pushed back my graduation date, or had to ask you for money because my crappy job couldn't cover the expenses it took to fix my car, or every time I made a stupid decision, which has been a lot. You just loved me, and I could never ask for a better father.
You, Mom—I love you. You laughed with me over the little things, and helped me see the bigger picture whenever I lost my temper or snapped at you or said something that didn't make sense, or tried to do something stupid and petty and ridiculous.
Logan. I never deserved you. You loved me like crazy and you're my best friend in the world, but I never deserved you. How could I? How could I have someone who loved me so much, told me how amazing I was all the time, and still not see it? Still not believe you enough to do something about it, to get help, to get out of the mess I got myself into?
And you, Alexander. You were the worst one. You're the person in the world that I loved the most, but I also hated you the most. Because you never could love me, but you still took everything you could get from me, and then some. Twisted and wrenched and washed your hands in my heart, and then pulled it out and mixed it all up and put it back in. You knew exactly what you were doing. How could you not? You know that feeling, when you feel like your heart or your stomach or somewhere in between is being squeezed and squeezed and squeezed, but it won't burst and give you the relief you want. That feeling is yours, Alexander. Every time, it has your name all over it. You were poison.
You should read this, as my eulogy. So everybody will know that I had no idea how to stop it, how to stop this thing from happening. That even the brilliant and funny and creative people with potential have their massive demons that they don't know how to deal with, don't even know how to put a name to them. That there are things that no one understands, not the best of all of us, nobody knows.
There are some things that cannot be fixed.
The box is for you. Whoever finds this. It's yours. Keep it. Open it, don't open it, shove it in your closet or leave it in the living room, do whatever you want with it.
It's not mine anymore.