Letters To All

To me, there was always something so interesting about the dead. The way they slept. The way they moved. The way they never talked.And then youalways knew what they were trying to say. I always thought about what it would be like to die. To watch over the people I loved for the rest of my life.

I never really took into consideration that I would have to wait so long.

Maybe now would be the best time to explain why there’s a letter in my hand. It would be best to explain why I’m standing in the middle of the hall, waiting for him. Explain to you why I’m dressed so nicely even though it’s just an average Monday.

The people that stand behind me, they blend into the normal routine of the hall where people pass. They know me and I know them, the only difference is the reason why they’re all here. They’re all waiting, just like me.

They know about the letter that’s in my hand. They know why I’m standing in the hall. They know who I’m waiting for and why. They know why I’m dressed so nicely. They’re holding their own letters in their hands, waiting.

We’re all hoping we don’t have to wait for much longer.

When you’re waiting, there’s no need for names. Especially for me, I don’t need to do anything, and I don’t have to listen to anyone.

All I have to do is wait.

Before this moment of waiting I asked the people that stand behind me to meet me earlier than usual. They knew they would receive a letter. They knew they had to wait.

Out of this group I asked two of them to take an extra letter and personally see to it that it is given to the correct person.

Now we all wait. They have already been given the time. Once the clock strikes three they will no longer have to wait. They will be able to open their letters. I hope that I don’t have to wait like them.

He’s walking down the hall, in a straight path towards me. He’s upset and I can tell he doesn’t want me here. I wait even more for him to come up to me; he grabs me by the arm. His powerful fist latches on to me and shakes me. He’s screaming, but I don’t think I want to listen.

I’m done waiting now.

The letter in my hand has been passed on to him. I say words to him that should sound sincere and from the heart, but they come out foreign. He looks at me and asks for an explanation.

It would be best to explain to you why there’s a letter in his hand. I would tell, but a letter you can only read.

I walk down the stairs, out of the building, and not caring about anything. Today is just an average Monday, there’s nothing special and nothing new.

I come home to say endearing words to my family. My mother and father, my brother and sister, whom I should love.

They’re not home, and there’s not even a note. No words of gratitude or thanks, just an empty house. I tell myself that I would be perfectly content with sulking in the empty atmosphere of my house. I remember that I still have to wait.

I’m waiting for the clock to strike three and when that happens their letters will be opened.

I sit on my bed and look out the window of the bedroom that I share with my sister. The room is so small that I can touch the window from where I am. There’s a box under my bed.

I should explain to you exactly what this box is. I should tell you the contents of the box and the reason behind them. But just like me you will have to wait.

I’m still waiting, maybe someone will come home. They will invite me with open arms and say the words I wished they did. But I only hope so I don’t have to face the truth of knowing they’re not here.

I waited for my house to be full, say thanks and words of gratitude. I stopped waiting a long time ago.

He tries calling me, I don’t answer. He tries again and this time leaves a message. Should I listen to it? No.

I’m waiting. I don’t need to do anything or listen to anyone.

A moment of peace washes over me, the thought of the letters being too much for some to bear. Am I going too far? It’s not a sin to help those you loved.

The word love does not exist. I wrote an essay on it, Mother sent me to a shrink. I had to calmly explain to the shrink the reasons why I wrote it. When asked about the thought of depression I had to answer.

I explained to the shrink that this talk of ours was pointless. I said that I have cleared my mind of all my obstacles except for one.

The shrink asked me what that ‘one’ was. I answered the shrink with a simple answer. When people ask simple questions they should only receive simple answers. I said my one last wish is to clear my mind of that obstacle and told the shrink that no one, not even him, could help.

Today, around five in the morning- way before anyone else was up- I called the shrink. I asked him for words of thanks and gratitude. Only it was the answering machine, it would be best for him to listen to me later when he had the chance.

As the clocks’ hand ticks closer to the three I begin to pace the halls of my empty house. No one is here to comfort me. No one is here to thank me.

I am waiting for someone to be here, I don’t mind who. I just want someone here for once.

I forget about the cards that I received a day before. The group of people that stood behind me in the hall had given them to me. I take them out of the bag I placed them in and carefully opened them.

I read each and every letter that is written. They are the words I seek from my family, they are the words you should expect from your family.

I am done. I am done waiting. The clock has announced its final hour to me.

He is calling me again and so I decide to answer. I don’t want to really. I’m starting to get sleepy.

I put the phone to my ears, thinking there will be words of sorrow and some that are pleading.

He is yelling at me, screaming for an explanation. I do only what I can. I smile.

I should explain the reason behind the cards. For the letter that is in his hand. For the people that hid behind me, who waited for me. I should explain the reason for a house being cold and empty. I should explain me.

I let the phone drop on the bed next to me, my eyes close.

Today is just an average Monday. I came to school with a letter in my hand. I gave it to the one boy I love. I gave at least ten other letters. The people that stood behind me were the friends that gave me the cards.

He’s still yelling. He’s still screaming.

Today I left school with the intention of never coming back. I came home today with the intention of knowing no one would be there. It was the first time.

I slowly start to feel drowsy.

On my bed is a box. A box of everything I own. Everything in the box is broken. Pieces are missing or nothing left. One item that is never broken is one thing that stands in my way. A picture. A picture of me.

I try to force my eyes open. Maybe look at something nice.

Today is an average Monday. There’s nothing new and nothing special. On my bed is a bottle, its empty now. I lay on my bed that is too small for me.

Today is an average Monday. Today is my birthday.

There’s a bag on my bed. The bag contains birthday cards from the people who didn’t forget.

There’s a box on my bed. The box contains everything that I own, everything that I hold dear.

There’s a phone on my bed. The boy I love is yelling and screaming at me.

There’s a letter in his hand. It tells him words of sorrow and some that plead. It says to him I love him. It says what I’ve been doing all day.

I have been waiting for him. I have been loving him. I have been wishing he was with me.

The letter that is in his hand explains me:

Today is an average Monday. Today is my birthday. I am done waiting for someone to come home. I am done waiting. I am done loving. I am done hoping. I am done pleading. I am simply. DEAD.