December 08, 2012
Letter 1.
Sometimes words are enough.
At least that's what the doctors kept telling me as they sat me down at a round table and forced a pen into my hands. I just stared at the blank paper in front of me and wondered how I was supposed to sum up the last 12 months into coherent sentences. How do you describe a feeling of complete emptiness? How would you illustrate bruises that run deeper than the skin? How can I be expected to explain what lead me here when I can't even make it make sense to myself?
I guess you just start.
So, Liam, these are my words. They asked me to tell them--piece by piece-- what happened to bring me to where I am today; this place of blood, tears and pain. This place of flashing lights and caution tape. I couldn't give them what they wanted-- a paragraph or two jotted down in a police station. I tried... I really did, but I knew that whatever I would write wouldn't be what they wanted to hear. They think it's black and white, right and wrong. But to me everything seems like one long hazy dream. One that only you can clear up. But you aren't here.
I know these won't be for yours eyes only, but you're the only one I am writing them for. Not for the police, or the doctors or my family. For you, Liam. I'll tell you everything that happened from start to finish. Maybe then it will all make sense.
Sometimes words are enough, so here are mine.
Yours always,
Rachelle
YOU ARE READING
These Words I Write
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