A girl staggers through the early morning fog. Her river of jet black hair almost as long as she is tall is barely seen as a passerby peers back into the thick cloudy veil of a cold October morn. She has been drinking. Heavily. She is painfully aware that she is beginning to sober up and looks at her bottle with pleading eyes, as though she and the bottle could strike some bargain. She shakes the bottle incessantly. Craving just a few more drops of her very own amber nirvana before the stagnant scent of death devours her again.
She tumbles onto a bench, entirely coincidental as everything in her immediate vicinity is shrouded in a morbid autumn mist, she's feeling around for something in her pocket. Her cigarettes? No, she gave up two months ago but old habits tend to die hard, if not ever. Her purse? Hardly worthy of taking out with her only to house the spare change rattling around in her other pocket. Eventually she found what she was looking for and she's careful not to rip it as she clumsily unfurls the crumpled paper which, with her hands shaking from an ungodly trinity of sleep deprivation, over-zealous alcohol consumption and frayed nerves, was no easy task.
"You stupid fucker." Is all she can hiss as tears spill hot and fast down those cheeks of hers that had been haggard and wearied by a night's worth of drinking and crying.
My Dearest Lin,
Where do I start? I suppose I shall start with the end, since you yourself are now beginning at the end. If this letter has reached you then I have passed on. I won't pretend I can envisage your shock because I don't suppose the event of my death, or the circumstances in which it came about are, in retrospect, all that shocking.
An off day became two, two became three, three became an off week, a week evolved into an off month. I've never had an incredibly high threshhold for pain of any kind. Be it physical or emotional. And all the absurtites of life and the nature of which you are expected to live it were suffocating.
One day it hit me. It hit me with horrific magnitude that I saw life not as a blessing, a gift one is meant to cherish and embrace. But as a burden, under the weight of which I was doomed to crumble.
Already, even as I write this I feel lighter, like I no longer feel the need to wrench my lips apart to form the seeds of a smile. Many may seethe with ire or grief or retreat into a hypnotic despondency, but I doubt that to be the case with you, my friend.
You see, I know you. Knew you. You'll dwell on the what if's and could've been's, you'll languish over how you could've paid more attention or chide yourself for not seeing the signs, or seeing them and doing nothing.
I say this with every ounce of love my withered soul was able to salvage: I left this earth a long time ago. The eternal rest of my flesh is indeed, the most merciful gift.
Your loving friend,
AN: Thank you everyone who took the time to read my work. As always, feedback is greatly appreciated.