Dear Rosie, (Love Letters #2)

His nod tells me he understands, then he pulls the front door open. “Gotta go catch that flight.”

The door shuts behind him, and I turn to the box.

Inhaling slowly, I lift the lid.

And then I hold my breath as I take out the single sheet of lined paper, folded into thirds.

It’s just like the others.

Until I open it.

Because this one isn’t written to me.

Dear _____

I don’t actually know who I’m writing this to.

There’s no one left. No one to care.

Hasn’t been anyone for a long time.

Honestly, I thought writing this would be harder.

Maybe I’m just too numb.

And maybe that’s the point. That there’s nothing left to fight for.

But if you’re reading this, then I’m sorry you had to find my body.

I step back.

Feeling like someone just hit my chest with a baseball bat as I reread that last line.

Her body.

Find her fucking body.

Is this…

I tug on the collar of my shirt, feeling like I can’t breathe.

I didn’t want to be anyone’s problem, but I can’t go to prison. I just can’t.

And if you’re here, looking for me, then you already know I murdered my dad tonight.

I had to.

It was him or me. And I only had enough pills for one of us.

I assume I’ll get caught.

I didn’t do anything to cover it up.

I can’t. I’m too tired.

And I just don’t want to be tired anymore.

ONE HUNDRED THIRTY-SIX