Epilogue | The Letter

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There is a level of pain that is very difficult to describe.

I admit to being haunted. I have times of being completely numb. And during those numb times, I fear it is gone. I fear that I have moved into a lesser state of grief.

So I want the pain back. I want the pain back and it comes back every time.

Every damn time.

Death carries an aftermath of devastation and confusion, something that will always be beyond grasp and beyond description. It hurts to be left.

It really does.

Death will always come and disturb, no matter when it arrives.

I thought I would find a way to live after the incident, but I never did. Instead, I found a painful emptiness, shredding ancient happiness that I once held in my heart. After many months of trying, I realized how hopeless it was. But most of all, I realized how mentally defeated I was.

After all, a useless life is an early death.

Do not believe that suicide asks for forgetfulness; it calls for an eternal memory. Suicide is the relief of getting rid of yourself. And for that reason, I know I am selfish for passing the pain to my beloved ones.

But in the end, you are not hurt by doing the right thing. In the end, there is no God in this world. In the end, six feet of earth is what makes us all equal.

By the time you have read this, I will no longer be. Whether I have decided to move, leave or end it, I have left this world.

Thank you, Mr. Walter. You were the only adult who understood. The only one who saw how much pain I was in. Like Hazel once did.


Elena Marie Campell.

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