Meat. Sammiches. Stuff.
Previous - this entry written on December 06, 2005 at 3:04 pm - Next

One last post...

...picture a girl huddled over the keyboard of her computer, typing slowly. She's choosing her words carefully, sometimes erasing one, occasionally deleting a whole line of text, determined to get this right. Her fingers are slipping from one key to the next and sometimes she mistypes; for some reason it's harder, today, than usual to type well, to spell things right.

She's staring up at the screen, then down at the keyboard and her hands, then back up again. Back and forth. There's music playing, quietly, in her headphones. She's got a foam mat set up near the computer, with blankets and pillows. When she's done writing, she's going to curl up there and just... drift off. It won't take too long, she thinks, and tries to write faster, before she loses the ability to write at all.

There are bottles, small ones, brightly colored plastic, scattered around the desk. There's a larger bottle, as empty as the small ones, its label announcing its high alcoholic content, resting in her lap. She hiccoughs; aftertaste of pills and vodka, she almost chokes, but keeps it all down.

Tired. Dizzy. She finishes typing, the last bit written on a letter she began to write years and years ago, a letter she has added to almost every day. It started out on paper, when she was still in grade school. Since then she's transcribed it to the computer. Saved it several different places. Updated it whenever she felt the need. She's been working on it a long time, waiting for the day when it was finished.

That day is today. She's said it all. There's nothing else she really finds worth saying. Nothing matters, any more, but saving it and lying down for a while. She's so tired.

Saved. Posted. Emailed. It'll get around. There's directions, messages to friends she hasn't heard from, just in case someone knows how to get ahold of them, release of promises, apologies. Tears; there's a lot of tears. She is sorry, after all. Wishes there was another way. Wishes it didn't matter.

But it does. This was too much. One last thing that finished her off. One last goodbye that was one too many.

He's in the ground now, she knows. His family refused to let her come to the service. Wouldn't tell her where he was buried.

She didn't get to say goodbye to him.

She hoped, maybe, she'd see him... after... tired...

...maybe she'd dream of him.

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