I'm writing to tell you...

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Flash Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
I'm writing this letter to tell you how much I miss you.


Submitted: April 24, 2014

A A A | A A A

Submitted: April 24, 2014



The fridge is bare. I haven't been shopping in weeks. There's some juice in there that hasn't been opened yet, the expiry date on it reads 10/13. Today's date is November the 19th, 2013. It's supposed to have been drunk, or tossed out by now. I don't want it. It's strawberry--I hate strawberry juice. I only bought it because of you.

I hate sweet things, strawberries are at the top of my list. They way they smoosh in between your teeth and leave those little black seeds there is disgusting. I hate chocolate too. Most people would think I was a freak by saying that, but I do. It's sweet...like I said I hate...

Well, I already said what I hate. You don't need to hear it again.

It's raining outside. The storm clouds have gathered together so closely they may as well be sardines in a tin. They have made the early evening sky turn as black as ink.

Claps of thunder bash against the walls of the apartment. Lightning zig-zags across the sky, and it reminds me of a tear I once had on a stocking of mine. It was New Years Eve and I was dressed in all black, save an elaborate white jacket, the collar full of ivory feathers. You said it made me look like a movie star. I felt beautiful. We had drunk two bottles of champagne, and as we got into your car my leg grazed against the door and my stockings ripped. My skin was as white as the snow, stark against the midnight hue. I gasped, my ruby red lips turning down into a frown. You whispered to me in your most sultry tone, that you would have ripped those stockings off of me once we got home anyway.

Somewhere in the distance someone is playing a song. Something jazzy, something mellow. It makes me think of dreaming. I do not dream anymore. You took all my dreams away with you. They are all locked in a large, navy suitcase with your initials stamped by the lock. J.R.C.

I miss you. It's terrible to feel this way, but the human soul is delicate, easily fragmented. Now I walk carefully, tiring to avoid the broken pieces of my heart that litter the floor.

My fridge is too cold. I think there might be some crackers in there, you said you liked to keep the crackers in the fridge to keep them cool. I thought you were off your rocker the first time you told me that. A year later I got used to it, ever since then the crackers go right into the fridge.

I never sleep before the sun comes up, and then it's because I cannot stand to face the day without you. The sun holds barren promises, my life is a wasteland, a field of thistles and thorns.

In my slumber I struggle. The past rolls around my brain and bashes against my skull, preventing me from ever waking up refreshed. I am at a loss without you.

The window pane feels cold as I press my palm to it. You once told me that everything was needed in this life, without the bad we could never appreciate the good. You looked so beautiful when you had said that, so damn fine. I could feel my breath hitch in my throat and my knees go weak. I could smell your cologne as you walked to the opposite side of the room, suitcase in hand, and bid me farewell. I could see you from the glass, your reflection telling me that you no longer loved me, your heart had found a new sanctuary now.

You never notice how amazing someone looks, just how much you love them until they walk out the door.

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