Young Writers Society

**Fictional Piece of Letters to Create a Short Story: More Letters to Come)** 

4/22/2022

Addressed to the one lucky enough to find these letters lost within these walls:

Sitting on the carpeted floor, I haven't felt this free in a long time. I have been weighed down by work and loss and fever reams of people whispering in my head. My system finally free on alcohol, nicotine, and fentanyl, I can breathe in the stale air around me and come to terms with not accomplishing a damn thing, but my successful departure from this planet. I was a mistake, made solely so my twin could be. I dreamt of being important and changing peoples lives, so they wouldn't feel the depression creep through their veins and feel the desperation to be validated through others every move, but as I age the only thing I seem to have any effect in doing is worsening my victim stance and enjoying it, as it slowly leaks the life from everyone around me.

I want to be done tormenting those around me, but in the event that only my parents grieve me, at least they'll have these letters to look on and haver some understanding as to why I had to leave this world for another, even though, even the belief in an afterlife has left me. For this first letter I want to write about what got me here. Two sides of different families coming together full of mental illness and addiction created a monster.

My roots aren't exactly the thing you read in fairytales. They aren't interesting enough to be in an action or drama story either. My mother's family was large and full of sexually advances on children and domestic violence seeping through every male's pores. I have heard stories of pregnant women being pushed down flights of stairs in hopes of an abortion. I saw tears run down my aunt's face as she desperately wanted me to not judge my grandfather for wanting to have sexually relations with his stepdaughters. While growing up, I had the privilege of watching each woman on my mother's side of the family fight against depression, anxiety, and multiple other diseases eating at their brains as they successfully ran households of abandoned children and loneliness clinging to the walls.

My mother fought her own demons by micromanaging a household that held no room for me within it's walls, so I sough refuge within my aunt's house. The hate from my mother was the only hate I would endure because I had white privilege. My mother's family was white as snow through and through, settling in Kentucky on farmland from the mother country of Hungry and Turkey, but my father's family was quite different. Native to America, they had suffered disease and turmoil from the white man. My father's father was from Germany creating a distinct difference within their household. My grandmother taught of the land and animals, as my grandfather taught of the good ole American ways: abandoning your wife and children to live a secret life.

This instilled addiction within their blood to fill a black hole consuming their lives. Some used alcohol and drugs and others used the military. The military spit some of them out like Jesus does the lukewarm, and some the military kept within it's clutch for close to twenty years. Luckily, my father kept on with the Army, causing nightmares and ptsd long into his aging years. One of my favorite memories is a father's day where he trusted me enough to tell me one of his haunting stories of being in war. Sometimes you have to kill children if you want to come home and see your own family ever again. Sometimes that same child will come to you in your dreams comparing themselves to your own children.

My roots outside of my lineage, the roots that I grew within my childhood home, were full of rage and pain. Destruction littered my memories of arguments, lawn clothing, and words that can never be unsaid. Even as I write this: my mother is depressed from being abandoned by her husband and adult children caused by her own actions, and my father is seeking anything to fill his emptiness; maybe contacting his long loss daughter in Germany could help fill some of the void, but we don't speak about that. And me? I haver become the thirty year old disappointment I never planned on becoming. My roots have nothing to do with this. My father's family was full of hardworking examples and good role models for me to look after, and my mother's family did their best to shelter me from my mother's hate, so I could focus on becoming san independent human.

So, what happened? I had the choice between bering responsible or running away, and you can assume what decision I made. Those are stories for another letter. For now I'll allow you to digest these words, so you can try to understand how I become this fucked up individual, yearning for death to overcome me a third time and succeed. I was the bright, hopeful one, the one everyone put their bets on to become something and live this shit hole. Your guess is as good as mine as to why I failed. Let's find out together through these letters I write in between emptying my soul of my debris and every secret.

For now cherish every moment you have left to fill normal, just for me because I can no longer tap into being that way:

XOXO Lovey