dear sal,
dr armisen read my last letter. she was shocked, like i knew she would be. she is contacting the hospital and the police about my parents to investigate.
but i don't really care. it doesn't matter what punishment my parents get. it won't bring you back.
i want to tell you what happened after you died.
my parents talked to the police for hours, while i stood, rocking back and forth, numb, trying not to cry. they gave me a blanket and i almost laughed. thank you for this fucking blanket, which will heal my psychological wounds and un-push that teenage girl off the cliff. thank you so much.
then they put me in the car and reiterated that if i ever told anyone about this the consequences would be dire, it was for my own good, they would not be held responsible for my illness, blah blah blah. i think they noticed something was wrong about twenty minutes in to the car ride, when i still hadn't said a word.
"isabeau, honestly, do not give us the silent treatment. it's so immature." my father said. "isabeau. isabeau. answer me, isabeau."
but i said nothing. every time i tried, the words caught in my throat.
when we got home, i ran upstairs and finally let out the sobs that had been welling up inside of me all night.
every time i was about to stop, i remembered your face, or the sound you made when my father hit your head with a rock, or the fact that we would never, ever talk again, and the wave of anguish came back tenfold.
i still don't know how anne found out. she must have gotten it out of my parents. all i know is that, at around midnight, she came in to my room, draped her arm around my shoulders, and cried right alongside me.
"i know." she said over and over again. "i know." and she did. i could tell she understood.
she understood that i loved you. you were the only good thing i had going for me, and you were taken away from me. and it was so unfair.
for the next few months, my life was hell. i stopped going to school, because i hadn't applied for any colleges anyway and i had always thought of you as my future. so i just stayed at home, as my parents tried treatment after exorcism on me in an attempt to cure me by day, and i slashed my wrists, thighs, stomach, and neck by night in an attempt to reach through my bloodstream and throttle the corrupt spirit inside of me that allowed this to happen, that wouldn't allow me to speak.
but i couldn't speak. i couldn't even scream. i could just sob and hurt, so that's all i did.
and when they checked me into the hospital, it was less to cure me of my depression and more to cure me of my homosexuality. their exorcisms weren't working, so they wanted to put me through the Normal Machine and have me come out shiny, happy, new, and straight.
and i'm just so sick of it all.
i was so trepidacious going into things with you. i was so terrified that my heart would be torn to shreds. and when i landed in your safety and realized that you really were home, it was the best feeling in the whole wide world. but then life had to go and mess things up. life sucks. i think i have to break up with it.
it was ironic, really, that my parents made your death look like a suicide. because that's what i'm going to do, right after i finish writing this letter.
consider this a suicide note, dr armisen, if that's what you want to call it.
and sal, consider it a see-you-soon.
yours,
isa.
