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It was me. There, I said it. You're gonna hate me for this - if it's possible for you to hate me any more than you already do - but I had to tell you. It's been eating away at me! You don't know the kind of things I've gone through. I thought my scars would be wiped away, but they don't fade. Not after something like that.
It's already crossed your mind though, hasn't it? Don't forget, I know you. Knew you. But you don't want to believe it, because why would I do something like that to myself? To you? Why would I take your pills, the ones that you take when you're feeling down, and tip the whole packet into my mug of tea while you're not looking; how could I drink it so cheerfully, sitting round the table and talking like we always did?
You've got to understand, I was scared. What d'you think, that I would let you find me, blood soaked in the bath surrounded by pink bubbles? Or on the floor in the kitchen with a knife clutched in my hands? I wouldn't be that cruel. I wanted to spare you. But I didn't think it through. That's just like me, huh?
I know. it's not funny. In fact, it wasn't funny at all. I remember that sudden clutch of panic I felt at seeing your face frozen mid sip, your eyes wide and staring. I never saw anything after that, but I can guess what happened. You called nine nine nine in a blind panic, your forehead creasing up like it always did when you were worried, and you tried to tell the operator what happened, tried to listen to their advice, but you couldn't say anything. You just sat there, dumb, clutching the phone. You didn't say anything later either, when the police came, or in the court in front of your mother and father and a hundred disapproving glares. So they locked you away. Because that's what murderers deserve.
We were the real thing, Jon. Not a fairy tale, princes and princesses and happy ever afters, but real, messed up, screaming and shouting and make-up sex, trudging to the corner shop in the rain just to get me low fat hazelnut yoghurt, and smoothing out that wrinkled brow of yours with kisses. You always said I would be the death of you, but somehow it worked out the other way round.
You're probably wondering why. Always fussing and fretting and trying to explain everything, you were. God, it drove me round the bend. But listen to me carefully and don't you forget this, don't you dare Jonathan Mitchell; drum it into that thick skull of yours somehow or other, because if I'm ever going to be able to rest in peace I need to know that you've got my message.
It wasn't your fault.
It wasn't even anything, really. That sounds pathetic but it's true. Things, you know, they just built up one on top of another, and I saw your pills and I thought, that'll make me feel better. And then I thought, what I really need is for my whole miserable insignificant little life to just stop. Anything's better than than feeling that low. So I took the lot. I'd put on three pounds over Christmas and I could tell that you'd noticed. And that worthless hussy Angela, I saw her pawing all over you at the garden party. What is she, forty? Slut. All these thoughts kept creeping in like black, twisted little worms - you were cheating on me with her. You were cheating on me because she had a nose job and I was fat and you were going to dump me and run off with her, or that woman from your work, Emma maybe, you were always talking about her.
Sometimes I think that maybe I'm wrong, maybe it was all okay, the verdict was suicide, and you're living the high life with some leggy blonde in a posh house and a fluffy poodle with an ugly bow in its fur. Oh God, you better not be. You wouldn't do that to me though. Like I say, we were in love. Love doesn't stop just because one of the partners has passed on; it knaws at you and leaps up when you see a lipstick stain or the hair in the plughole. It's raw and sometimes it makes you feel so, so tired you just want to curl up and cry till your throat aches and your eyes are red and sore. I hope you wept for me, just a little. I would've for you, you know.
It was a mistake. Just one tiny little misjudgement. You forgive me, right?
Thanks for reading.
Just kidding, it's a pretty common name. Keep writing buddy!