Sincerely, Niall [z.h.] ✔

Monday April 28, 2013

Dear Zayn, 

     My bruises from Ms. James heels have mostly healed. It's almost gone, and I'm glad because it's just another painful reminder-mentally and physically-that you aren't here to protect me. That scares me, especial since I'm not as smart as I used to be. Anyone could easily hurt me without you here by my side. 

     Speaking of Ms. James, I didn't have to go to therapy last Thursday, nor today. I'm so thankful because I'm afraid she will hurt me again. Should I tell someone? I'm not really sure if it's a good idea. I mean, she won't be my therapist anymore, but she knows my phone number, my address, and pretty much everything about me. She has easy access to hurt me, so I'm not sure telling someone would be a good idea. She might get really mad. 

     Sorry, back to the reason why I didn't have to go. Apparently I passed out last Thursday-lack of sleep or something-and Greg just so happened to knock on the door at the time. He used the spare key to get in and found me passed out on the floor next to the couch that I sit on to wait for you. He scheduled an appointment with my doctor for Monday, which was today. 

     I haven't been to the doctor's ever since the accident. I can't say that I've missed it because it reminds me of the accident and how close I was to dying. I don't like to think that we were almost torn apart because of something so silly as a car wreck. We're lucky, actually, that we got a second chance. But does the second chance mean as much to you as it does to me? I think not, because if it did, you would be here by my side. 

     Anyway, the doctor had me sit on the cold table and take my shirt off while he and Greg went out of the room to talk about something. I couldn't hear what it was they were speaking about, but I guess that's why they went out of the room. My bruise was yellow when I took the shirt off, and it looked really ugly. I think you would have cried because you hate it when there's scar, bruises, or cuts on my body because you always find a way to blame it on yourself, especially since the accident. But you know that I'd never blame you. I've told you over and over that it wasn't your fault. I love you too much. 

    When the doctor came in, Greg wasn't with him. The doctor said something about him going to the waiting room, but I didn't really care because I was too busy thinking of an excuse in case the doctor saw my bruise, which he did. He was pressing on different parts of my body and asking it if hurt. None of them did until he got to where my bruise was. I think he pressed harder on it-I could almost feel him pressing harder-because it really hurt. I whimpered out a no when he asked me if it hurt and that's when he knew I was lying. 

     He asked where I got it, and I told him that I got it from passing out, that I hit the side of the coffee table when I fell, that I wasn't too sure because I wasn't exactly conscious. He believed me, I think. He didn't press me for more information, so I take that as a good sign. 

     After that I got my blood pressure and heart rate taken. Got weighed and measured and all. Through the whole process, I could just imagine you sitting in the uncomfortable plastic chairs that the office had to offer, tapping your foot impatiently as the doctor took his sweet time with everything. You'd ask him if he could go any faster, and he'd just laugh and say, "patients is a virtue, young one." You'd scowl at him and I'd laugh, too, sticking my tongue out at you before paying attention to what the doctor was doing. 

     But of course, none of that really happened. But I like to think that it does happen. That you're somewhere out there, desperate to come back to me. I know you're out there, I can feel it. But whether you want to come home to my side is still a mystery. 

     I keep thinking that it's my fault. Maybe you ran away because I'm ugly. Or stupid. Or worthless. Not good enough. Maybe it's my thighs, they're pretty fat. Or possibly the color of my hair? Or did you just fall out of love with me and were too afraid to face me and say that, so you fled? It hurts to think of all the possibilities, but with each passing day it gets harder to imagine that the ones that don't involve me and my qualities are real. I'm losing hope that there's a reason other than me that you left. And I'm afraid. 

I love you, Zayn. 

Sincerely, 

Niall