The Waiting Game

The First Letter

They would not be wrong.

Sitting in the room, in one of the folding chairs with minimal padding, watching a casket . . . It hit me so much harder. The reality of what had happened stabbed through my chest, chaining me there. Taking a piece of me and lowering it six feet under the ground with the body.

His mother got the call at one twenty-two in the morning to tell her that her son was dead.

Dead because of me.

Dead because I couldn’t save him.

Dead because I wasn’t enough to keep him from taking his own life.

Throughout the entire service I could feel his brother’s eyes, watching me. But I didn’t look up. I didn’t know what I could say to him, either.

I didn’t want to see the look in Devon Mueller’s eyes.

~*~

I never expected the letter.

At first, I almost thought that it was a sick joke, my own personal torment. I had weighed the envelope in my hands and I had fingered the top and I had studied the handwriting, something sick unfurling in my chest like a snake uncurling to strike. My hands were shaking so hard that the envelope ceased to look like an envelope. It didn’t look like much of anything through my tears.

I knew the handwriting the same way that I had known my own. I had seen it through my entire life—when it was large loops and misspelled letters, when it was chicken scratch, when his hand was finally true and confident in his pen strokes and the calligraphy became legible. I had used his handwriting to poke fun at him numerous times, smiling and just wanting to see what he would say. Just wanting to watch his eyes light up as he laughed just for me.

It was his handwriting, but he had been dead for eleven days.

I sat on the edge of my bed for the longest time, wondering if it was some sick joke. If someone was fucking with me because they had nothing else to do but to torment the girl who couldn’t save the boy of her dreams. I wondered if there was someone who wanted to watch me suffer. It didn’t take me long to remember that most of the people I knew now wanted to watch me burn.

Eventually, I had managed to clear my mind enough to take a deep breath. I let the air seep from my lungs, not quite letting it go—now, I couldn’t let my breath completely go. I breathed back in, and I closed my eyes.

I cut my finger on the envelope. I didn’t even care that it stung.

The pain was nice in a way that it was a reminder I was still alive. That I was still breathing.

And that, maybe, I wasn’t dreaming.

I pulled the white lined paper out with shaking hands, fumbling to unfold it. I let my knees fail me and perched on the edge of my bed, smoothing out the letter, blinking steadily through my sleepy fog to read.

Gia, it began.

I love you. I am sorry.

I know you’re probably wondering why—and I’m going to tell you. This, I promise. But I just want you to know that you were what kept me alive for so long, Gia. You gave me hope and you made me smile. Thank you. Thank you for that.

I’m sorry that it wasn’t enough to save me.

I’m sure you don’t understand what is going on right now—and I can’t blame you—but I couldn’t leave your last memories of me being my coffin lowering into the ground, or the urn holding all that is left of me. I don’t want that for anyone, but I can’t do this anymore, Gia. Think it cowardly or think it selfish—I’ve always known that I’ve been a lot of both. Sticks and stones, I guess. And nothing can hurt me now.