Dead Letter

October 3, 2009
Hey, I guess.

So, I’ve been told before that when you need to say something to someone, you should write them a letter. You don’t really need to send the letter or anything, just write it down, and get it out there, you know? So that’s what I’m gonna do. I have a lot I wanna say to you, but can’t, and wouldn’t know how to anyways. So this is my way of making up for.

I want to start by apologizing.

I’m sorry that I’m your best friend. Because really, you deserve better. But that’s just your bad judgment, yea? See, even now my sense of humor is horrible.

I’m sorry for all the money you’ve spent on me, and I’m sorry for eating all your food whenever I went over to your house. I’m sorry that I really don’t know when to shut up, and in all honesty, give the worst advice ever. (I’m really sorry for that last one.)

I’m sorry for calling you in the middle of the night and keeping you up and making you talk to me when all you really wanted to do was sleep. I’m sorry for making you listen to me whine about my problems, and I’m sorry for any time I ever made you worry. But thank you for caring enough to.

I’m sorry for calling you for bail money. I’m sorry for calling you drunk and trying to get you to have phone sex. I’m sorry for trying to start your car with a butter knife that time you lost your keys. And them found them under the drivers seat.

I’m sorry that I’m the reason you’ve been grounded for the last four and a half months. And I’m sorry that I’m the one to always get you into trouble with your parents. And the law.

I’m sorry that I really just don’t know when to stop. At pretty much everything I do.

And I’m sorry that you’re in the situation you’re in now. I’m sorry I even took you with me to Danny‘s house that night. The word ‘sorry’ can’t even begin to express how much I regret this. I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’m sorry that I’m almost eighteen years old and I still don’t know what the words ‘no’ or ‘stop’ mean. And that I thought having a BAC of .06 just meant that’s probably how many miles over the speed limit I should drive.

I’m sorry it took me two and a half days to visit you after I was released from the hospital.

It took me that long to be able to face your parents. And you.

Because I’ve never really done well with hospitals, you knew that. You were probably the only person that knew why though. They all have that distinct smell. Like peroxide and ammonia and alcohol and all the nurses’ perfumes’ mixed together. It’s a smell that tends to bring back memories, and in cases like this, they make new ones.

I’m sorry that I started crying uncontrollably when I first saw you. I told myself that I would never cry in front of anyone else, ever, because it’s just not something people like me should do. But there I was, doing it at the worst possible moment, in front of near strangers who really had to hate me right now.

I’m sorry it took me another day to get my sh** together and be able to go see you again. And be able to do it right, with no tears, and without my voice cracking when I spoke. And not wanting to run the other way when your mom smiled at me and hugged me.

And, God, Sophie, you don’t know what it took for me not to completely break down when she said to me, ‘They really think she’ll be okay.’

Because that meant, even after the things that have happened in the last couple weeks, I’m going to have to face you. I’m going to have to speak to you again after this.

So, when your mom left for a few minutes to get something to eat, I got up from my chair by the window, and I took the few steps between us, and I sat down next to you. I was careful not to pull anything, not move anything that shouldn’t be. But I could hold your hand, feel your fingers. I could reach out, and I could touch your hair. And after I made sure that you were solid, and really weren’t as breakable as you looked right now, I laid my head against your chest. And I listened to the beating of your heart.

And I thought, maybe, at times like that, it’ll be okay to cry, as long as it’s out of happiness.

So, even though you won’t ever read this, I think I should at least end it right.

Sophie, thank you and I’m sorry, and I love you. And I’m sorry that I can’t ever say these types of things out loud, but I do. I really, really do.


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