Work Text:
The start of the letter is always the easiest.
To my friend, Tree.
Friend. Was friend the right word for him? She had always felt something was wrong calling Tree her friend.
To my friend Tree.
Okay, now here comes the more difficult part. Every letter she wrote always started with addressing the person, and then she could go on to rant about how horrible her life is and what led up to this moment and all that corny stuff.
Why was this doing this, anyway? It seemed like such a simple question, but in reality, there were a lot of small answers, so many stupid issues piling up on top of her throughout these past few months. Miniature issues, issues so small nobody ever cared about. But god, they hurt much more than she wanted them to—they sometimes hurt more than the actual important issues in her life.
Like...
Like her living state. She had forgotten what it felt like living normally for once. What it felt like to have an organized section in her room for everything she needs, to have a desk that isn’t cluttered with useless items she collected and never bothered to put away over the weeks.
Ugh, yeah, she wished she could be like those people who clean their entire room before committing suicide, but if it makes her more of a burden after she dies because of that, so be it.
She exhaled, dragging the pencil along the paper in a weak attempt to have somewhat legible writing for once.
I feel horrible, and I know there’s nothing you can do about it.
It would’ve been nice for you to try and help more, but it wouldn’t have made a difference either way. I hated the way you looked at me every time I relapsed.
The thought of why she wrote to him every time confused her the more she lingered over it, one of those questions better left unanswered to avoid any more confusion in her life. She looked up from her piece of paper. Was there even a point to writing this?
It’s... Not like anyone would really care, anyway.
Whatever, she’ll finish this paragraph and get it over with once and for all.
I don’t know how I'm supposed to act when everyone expects something different out of me. You’re lucky nobody actually hates you, unlike me. It's unfair.
She felt a pit of anger arise, as usual.
I wish I were you.
She slung the pencil to her side, watching it slide off the ledge she, too, sat on. That’s good enough. She’s not Shakespeare or anything, but that should get the general point across.
Putting the piece of paper underneath her jacket, she shifted, looking down at the day below.
Goodbye, Fanny. Nobody will miss you.
She let her body move, feeling a sudden jolt as she felt the air pushing her down.
She already regretted it