chapter -1 (Patreon)

-1.  (numbered in this manner to indicate that I am still thinking of where the alternate drafts of the suicide letters will belong structurally)

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Chapter -1.

People are going to tell you I was selfish. That I took the coward's way out. You are going to overhear their voices at the funeral. In the next room. Down the stairs. Your Great Aunt Linda will probably tell you that I was a pervert. But if you had seen my cousin in her bikini, well.

To kill the time, lately, I find myself living in the past. Telling myself stories about when I was young. There's no sense dwelling on the future. The future doesn't exist. I'm going to kill myself.

You will be fine. As fine as anyone is in this world. I won't miss you. I won't miss your father. That's the whole point. I've loved you. That won't ever change. It will wait in the past, and you can reach out whenever you need it.

I have been telling myself stories about the past. We experience time like it is a roller coaster, hurtling forward. One way. We can catch glimpses of where we've been, but we can't go back. It starts, climbs that first long climb of childhood, and then you're hurtling. Hurtling.

But I think time always…

Pervert? Your great aunt has never let it go. It was one summer. You should have seen my cousin in her bikini. You should have seen me in mine! We were glorious. We were fourteen years old and the whole ocean stretched out to forever. The whole summer was infinity. And she read to me. She read the stupidest things to me in her soft voice.

Pervert. Nobody got pregnant. Nobody got hurt except my aunt's sense of propriety. Unless hickies count as bodily harm. Do hickies count as bodily harm now?

A roller coaster loops, of course, so it isn't the best metaphor. We experience time as a roller coaster that ends in a brick wall. I'm pretty sure Einstein said that.

But I think time always exists. Every moment that happens, sits there, beside the others, like a plate on a table. Like a book, forgotten beside you on your cousin's bed. This isn't the letter I meant to write to you. I wasn't going to write at all. It's frustrating that I am.

My brick wall is coming up fast, and I still feel an obligation. I still feel like I owe you an explanation.

This doesn't really read like an explanation though, does it?

I'm going to kill myself. People are going to tell you I was selfish. Weak. Tired. Depressed. A bad mother. You are going to overhear their voices in the next room. Down the stairs. Through the window. Your Great Aunt Linda will probably tell you that I was a pervert. But if you had seen your cousin in her bikini, well. You might have asked if she needed more sunscreen, too.