Dear Sir,
Do you know that, as I write this, I am still burning because of you? I am. I am still burning. I thought you would smile when you heard that. I thought you would throw back your head and laugh, laugh proudly. I thought it would please you to hear that the fire you lit is still burning inside my chest, still eating away at my heart and my lungs and whatever else is packed in there; organs and my soul. I knew you would laugh. You always laugh.
And ironically, it was your laugh that started the fire. Well, a fire. Not The Fire. But your laugh started my fire, my fire for you. I burned with love and passion. When I heard you laugh, I heard a match being lit. Your crackling laughter made me want you, need you. So I followed you.
Now I want you to close your eyes, so full of spite, so full of malice, and I want you to imagine you are someone else. I know it's hard, so please take your time. Now, imagine how I felt when, as I followed your warm, sparking laugh, you turned and waited for me. Imagine. Imagine joy. Do you know joy? I'll tell you what joy is. Joy is running head on into a blazing fire, running to the center of the blaze, and not burning, because the fire is only love. Except there was nothing only about it. It was The Fire.
Don't stop imagining just yet. You're still me. Now, I want you to imagine that Fire, keeping you warm at night, keeping you safe. Protecting you from the people that hurt you, protecting you from the things that frightened you. Imagine nightmares. Do you have nightmares? My nightmares got worse when I met you, because they could. Because I trusted you to stop them. And you did, you burned them away. The Fire burned them away.
Continue to imagine. Imagine that your life was torn apart like an old blanket. Imagine ragged, frayed edges, and a center so thin you could see through it. Imagine living with the fear that that center will tear, because it can tear, any minute. Imagine a needle. A needle and thread, thick red thread, thread that glows, that burns. Imagine the thread sewing up your blanket, and imagine that your true love holds the needle.
You know the next part. The needle is pulled too hard. The thread breaks and falls out. The blanket is weaker than ever. The fire goes out and the wind is cold, so much colder than before. Icicles blow on this wind, and pierce anything soft and raw. Like new skin. And I have one more thing for you to imagine. It will be the hardest for you, because your heart is absolutely and utterly dead, gone, burned away, or perhaps melted into a pool of blood and turned to steam, bright. red. steam. But try, just try, to imagine the pain of a heart pulled from the deepest, comforting fire. Pulled through rock and water and ice and death, stopped and started countless times. Imagine what you did. Imagine how I screamed, screamed to the wind and the world, and screamed for The Fire. Screamed for it to come back. The Fire.
You may stop imagining now, and I will tell you what you already know. The Fire never came back to me, no, that you took away forever, but my fire for you still burns, years after you went away. I know you are laughing. Well, stop laughing.
There is a bullet in my chest. You haven't seen it yet, but there is a gun that I threw down as I fell. And then suddenly, there was no more fire, no more burning, leaping, crackling, devouring pain. There is no more fire inside of me. There is nothing inside of me. And you are standing there, laughing as you read my suicide note. And I think that is the most fitting thing you could do, laugh. This is goodbye.