Love Deluxe

by InkStone

Dear Friend

Dear Friend,

I hope this letter does not distress you too much. Know that although I will certainly be gone by the time you receive this, I went peacefully into the void, free of all the pain that's gripped me these past few years. Let it bring you some comfort that wherever I am, it's better than here.

I was walking down Main Street last week, guided by the lee light of the waning moon and its sister stars, examining the strange and monstrous shadows cast across the gray light of shop floors by headless mannequins, knick-knacks, baubles, and curios. Everything was quiet as the grave, my only company the few homeless folks who gather with moth-bitten blankets in the old, muddy lot pock-marked with the remains of the old hardware store. One of them - the old, grizzled man who ties wild berries into the knots of his yellowing beard - waved to me. I think he must have seen something in my eyes, or perhaps it was the way that I walked, because a sullen expression passed over his face and he made the sign of the cross with his fingers as though he was trying to expel a demon. Whether he thought a demon haunted me or that I was the demon, I will never know.

I made my way to that old stone bridge that lazily arches over the tiny brook that separates the main part of town from everything else. Do you remember that little stream? We used to go out there and do cannonballs from the railing, laughing as the passing cars honked at us and enjoying the cool feeling of the water in those hot, humid summers. It was only later that my father told me that there were large boulders below the bridge that had claimed many lives when he was a child, and it was a miracle that neither of us cracked our heads open on those hidden dangers.

That same water that we shared many fun hours in is now little more than a slurry of mud and trash that painstakingly inches its way toward some unknown and far-off destination. Banks filled with reeds, cattails, and colorful wildflowers are now dotted by needles, styrofoam coffee cups, and crushed cartons of cheap cigarette brands. I find this to be an oddly poignant metaphor for life.

The moon watched me like some cosmic, all-seeing eye as I stepped through the rusted wrought-iron gate of the town graveyard. I passed by graves decorated with colorful flowers and flags that denoted services I could not parse, stones choked with weeds and moss and others that were as pristine as the day they were set in the earth. The smell of topsoil and rot hung in the air like an old memory, oddly comforting even as it made my nose scrunch in disgust. It was strange; in this land of the dead, I felt a sense of kinship and belonging that was absent for years.

You know where their graves are, by that old willow tree whose branches bend almost to the ground. My mother loved that tree, loved the way that it sat on the hill in that awkward pose, loved the leaves it would drop in the feel, loved the rough feel of the bark. I never understood why she wanted to be buried near that tree, where her corpse would become speared by some slow-moving root curling around it like a snake and steadily devoured. But then, I never understood much about what she did.

I sat by the graves until the rose-tint of morning brightened the horizon, not knowing what I was doing or why I was there, just staring off into the abyss and letting it stare back into me. The quiet engines of cars started to woosh along the road by the cemetery, and I took that as my cue to leave. As I was walking back along the main road, avoiding the eyes of those few people who open their businesses at the crack of dawn, I saw in the fading light of a streetlamp the falling husk of an insect, killed by coming too close to the bulb, and I understood.

My friend, you know I haven't been well for a while. I don't think I've ever really been well, not for a long time, but these past few years have been nothing but constant pain. Every day it feels like a lasso of barbed wire is being slowly tightened around my heart, and I can't put up with this anymore. I haven't left my room since visiting the cemetery last week; my days consist almost entirely of eating and sleeping. I can't go on like this, but I don't know how to change it. I don't even know if I can. The only thing I know I can do is go out on my own terms.

I'm sorry. I know how selfish this decision is, and I imagine that my funeral will be full of people talking about how much they loved me, how I should have just reached out for help. But I can't. It feels like no matter how much I talk to people, they can never really understand what I'm saying, just responding with empty platitudes and a solid pat on the back. There's a void inside me, and with each passing day, I'm becoming less and less human, less and less able to be understood by others. What will I become if I let this continue?

Before my father died, he left me with one phrase that has stuck in my mind. 'Everything passes'. I think he meant the words to be comforting, saying that even when times are tough, everything will eventually come around. But the more I've thought about it, the more I've put a darker spin on those last words. Everything does pass in the end, and maybe the comfort is the knowledge that we can accelerate that process.

I apologize, my friend. I've been rambling for a bit too long and getting all sentimental in these final moments. I've already taken an overdose of my sleeping medication; there's no going back now. I'm sorry again, for everything. Maybe things would have been better if we never met, though I think I would miss all the fun moments we've had together. Then again, how could I miss what I never had?

Sorry, I'm rambling again. My head is starting to swim and the tips of my fingers are becoming numb, that strange feeling of pins and needles spreading throughout my body. I just want to say one last thing: don't blame yourself. I'm not worth it.

We had good days my friend. Very good days.

Love,
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Author's Note:

Sometimes you get a flash of inspiration in the middle of the night.

If you like it, feel free to comment!

If you don't like it, feel free to tell me why!

Comments

[danemo]

I wonder where this is going

[InkStone]

12025926
Left, right, maybe up or down

[GleamingKyler111]

12025926
12026033
Or maybe even up, up, down, down, left, right, left, right.