Mintiee's warning: Write.

That's your warning. If you don't write then... ¬¬

Chapter Five

Dear Jenny


There's not too much more I can say than, well, I'm sorry.

How do you put feeling to paper…? I've just read over those words and they seem so… They seem so fake, so common. And I wouldn't even blame you for thinking those words as nothing more than the lies I've spun for you this past year. But, please, don't throw this out. Or, at least, read until the end before you do. These words are the most sincere, the most important, I have ever said. Written. Whatever.

I'm sorry doesn't even cover it though. How can two words excuse me from everything I've let myself become?

And maybe the worst part of it is that I've only managed to see who I really am since you left. I've tried so hard to escape it, too, my true reflection is now always there.

How could you have even looked at me, Jenny? How could you have seen me, listened to me, and still found a reason to give me a second chance? A third chance? An almost endless list of chances? I see myself and all I want to do is run.

…God this letter is hard. I'm finally making sure I tell you nothing but the truth, and I feel like throwing it all away. The truth just seems painful to say now. But I owe it to you.

The truth is, Jenny, it's been less than twenty-four hours since you've left. And in that time I've managed to get drunk, to tear the flat apart and to almost do the same to Mira as I did to you. I'm scared, because the only thing that stopped me from doing so, or worse, was Harry. If he hadn't caught me, made me realise what I was doing…

I don't even want to think about it. I don't want to know what I could have done to Mira.

This letter, though, please don't see it as a plea for you to come back. I'm far too scared for that to happen. What if I do worse? What if I-

Sorry. I can't finish that sentence. And I'm rambling. Look at me now. I used to be so good with words… I can't even manage to write a letter, finish a sentence. To you of all people.

There's so much I wish I could say to you. We used to tell each other every random though that popped into our heads. But I'll cut this short. You don't deserve any bullshit from me, and maybe the best way to do that would be to just stick to facts now.

I'm moving. I can't stay in our home anymore, with the constant memories. I find my need to escape, my…cravings come most when I feel trapped by our ghosts. The moment I saw who I've become was the moment I realised that, this time, I really do need help. Help before was always for criminals, thieves and domestic abusers.

Well, I guess it still is now. Which is why I need it.

I don't know if you remember, but I have a cousin who lives in Stockport. We spent New Years at his once. Pretty big house, flash car? We had expencive champagne and some weird finger food that we never figured out what they actually were. He was a really cool, confident guy - you seemed to have a good, comfortable chat with him even though you'd never met before. But he had that girlfriend that… Well, she asked you if you bought your dress from a charity shop.

Anyway, there's a rehabilitation centre in Stockport and he lives about three miles away from it. I've talked everything over with him, and he's allowing me to stay – with the condition that I do actually go out and get help. It seems like the best solution, as boarding in the centre would just bring back those feelings of entrapment, and, well – I've already told you I'm scared.

Jenny, this isn't a plea for you to come back. It's just… I dunno. You deserve the truth. You deserve to know what's going on, and I feel like I need to tell you, too There won't be any letter after this though, and that's a promise I will keep. Because I hope nothing more than you move on and find someone that you deserve.

I'm selling a couple of things, so I can get by without living completely off my cousin. But the rest if yours to take, sell, do with it what you will. In case you don't have the key, I've left you the spare one under the doormat.

Once again, Jenny, I'm sorry.

Please don't let me hold you back from the rest of your life.




Dear Jenny,

I'm sorry. And I'm scared. And I miss you.

All at once, together.

I know the amount of times I've apologised is probably the same figure as how much money I've spent on the coke. I know that not even a fool would listen to my apologies now. But this one, really, is true.

And you know what? To prove it I'm not going to spend all the time, and ink in this pen, listing reasons why it's true. Because after a while you get lost in reasons and pay no attention to what you're sorry for.

Jenny, I'm sorry I hurt you.

Remember the day we met? Some people remember the names of every teacher that has ever stood in front of them and taught them something. They remember dates, and room numbers and maybe even times. I remember none of that. But I remember you. I remember your little, pink self with curls in ribbons – because your mum, somehow, thought that was a safe, cute, something outfit for your first day at nursery.

I remember waddling over to your pink self, sitting tear-stained and alone on the ground in front of the entrance gates. I remember your tiny, pink nose and your, then, large dark green eyes looking up at me with anger and, well, heartbreak. Clueless, I asked you why you were sitting there on your own. "Mummies aren't coming now." You refused to speak to me, and just turned your head away.

I remember being confused, as four year olds so often are, and I remember sitting down in front of you. Because you puzzled me, and you were crying. Four year old me pressed on to asked why you were upset, because it was "the first day and you shouldn't cry on the first day because it's supposed to be happy – that's why my Daddy said". Still not looking at me, you told me that my Daddy wasn't told to go away from the ball, that he didn't get called a smelly girl by all the boys – so the first day was happy for him. I remember seeing a fresh wave of tears falling down your tiny face at that point.

"But you don't smell," I said, now even more confused than ever. We were four and somebody had said something I couldn't believe was true, I had never experienced hearing something that was blatantly false. Please only told me stuff that was true at that point, right?

You turned to me then and looked at me with a completely different expression. "I don't?" You asked.

"You don't, because I have a smelly dog and you smell nothing like him."

To be honest, some of this exact wording I'm making up. Because it was twenty years ago, and not many can remember moments with complete clarity from that long ago. But the laugh you gave next is something I do remember. I remember how the look on your face changed from sadness to innocent joy, and how it lit up your eyes. I remember that because it was an amazing sight, and because that was the moment that we became friends.

And that's when you asked me the question that got the response I've echoed for twenty years, whenever you've been upset. You asked me why I, a boy, was being nice to you, "all the other boys tell me to go away."

"If I told you to go away, or made you cry, you wouldn't laugh. And I like it when you laugh, it makes me feel happy. And I like feeling happy."

Those words have been haunting me ever since I came back from Rehab six months ago. And they won't stop bouncing off the walls now. Because I hurt you. I hurt that four year old you with the innocent joy and whose laugh could make me happy. How could I hurt that?

Ever since that day, too, you've always tried to make me happy; as you do to everyone you meet. You're the last person in the world that deserves to be hurt. I did so in almost every way possible.

That's what I'm sorry for Jenny, for breaking your heart over and over again. For breaking your heart and the heart of the little girl dressed in pink, sitting alone in front of the gate.

Who have I become? Who have I let myself become? If you'd told either one of us two years ago where we are now, it would become one of our personal jokes. Me? Chose cocaine over you?

If I could do that, what else could I do? Who else could I become? I obviously have no self-control anymore… I snorted that away.

It makes me terrified to think what I might do tomorrow, or even tonight. The last thing I want is to hurt someone, anyone else. But I lose that sense when cocaine becomes the first thing I want.

Why am I telling you this? So suddenly I'm pouring all my thoughts out to you again like it's years ago. I don't even really write letters anymore, it's always text or phone calls, or, when I worked, e-mails.

I don't really know what gave me the urge to write so much. I sat down to write the letter telling you I'm moving, but didn't stop when the letter ended. I just found myself pull over another piece of paper and kept writing. Maybe when I limited myself to just facts I found I couldn't do that, I had to say more to you. Or maybe I'm trying to introspect.

Or maybe it's just because I miss you. I miss being able to talk to you about anything, and you being able to do the same to me. I miss how you helped me sort through all the crap bouncing around my head.

…But that's just me missing myself function properly. No. I miss your voice, your presence, your patience, the way you subconsciously push your hair to the side and twirl it around your finger when you're thinking deeply. Your bad singing, the way you won't leave the house until you have your charm bracelet on.

But I'm the reason I have to miss you. If it wasn't for that last night… You would still be sitting here with your charm bracelet, twirling your hair around your finger.

If I didn't punch you unconsc-

I've let myself do that. I'm a domestic abuser. What right have I to feel sorry for myself? What right have I to nostalgia?

I'm filth.

No, I should be doing none of this. Getting upset, telling you I miss you. Telling you I'm scared. I've lost those rights, because I'm the reason I'm sitting here alone, in a flat that resembles the effect of letting a bull into a china shop.

It's disgusting how I let myself feel like a victim for even a moment. I could have stopped it.

Send the first letter, bin this one. It has no right to be seen by anyone, let alone by you, Jenny. You deserve no more crap. You deserve to be able to laugh.

Thank you so so much to everyone who has read this far :3 You are amazing.

But any chance you could drop a little note to tell me what you think? I'm only a teenager and need re-assurance if I'm doing something right, or help if I'm doing it wrong xP

Thank you again

EDIT: XDDDDDDDDDDDDDDD To all who read this before the change and saw "Ross" signing the letter, that was a mistake XDD I'm intentionally using fake character names for internet versions of this, cos the characters are later going to be in a book I want published xPP Don't want any trace of it on the internet ^^ (Ross is Eric's 'real' name... Not Jenny's XP)