A/N: This is where it ends, folks.


+ender+


20.

I'm praying to a God I don't believe in that you'll let him read the letter when he's old enough to understand. That you really weren't bitter as I thought you'd be, even when you said you weren't. That some small part of him will remember the brush of my hand on his peach fuzz hair, or the way I smiled at him, because I think that was my only real smile.

And I hope that he forgives me the empty pill bottle on the bedside table, even though I don't think you will. And I don't blame you.

I think it's clear by now that the only person I blame is myself.

My eyelids are getting heavy, and I know sleep is coming soon; the best damn rest I'll ever have. I hope you waited 'til you got home to read the letter I gave you. The one that says that you're not nearly as fucked up as me, and that I'm sorry I poisoned you with my kisses so many times, and that this beautiful baby boy is the best thing I've ever done. Maybe the only good thing. And that I'm un-savable.

A good captain goes down with her ship, and she takes all her baggage with her.

And I'm not sure that makes sense. So I close my eyes.