Heather looked around the room and gulped in a breath of air. Her bed stood next to her under the opened window letting in a cool breeze and ruffling her curtains. She then let out all of the air in her lungs with a weary sigh that filled the room. On her desk there was a gun, the one her father used to use. Heather let her hand rest on it for a few seconds, as long as she could keep it there before pulling it away with a sharp movement. Her hands quivering, Heather placed a perfectly folded letter onto the desk next to the gun. She knew its words by heart.
Dear Mother,
I am sorry. I am so sorry. I do not want you to try to understand, just know that I tried my best to chose the path you always wanted for me. In the end, though, I ended up with the world on my back and a glass half-empty. There is no miracle medicine that can cure the soul like you cure cancer. There are no soul transplants like there are heart transplants, because some things can't be that easily replaced. If you look around my bedroom, you'll see a piece of my broken soul in paintings that I made after our fights. You don't know how many times I have drafted this letter deciding what to say, but I eventually came upon the word dear. Our bond was fragile, but you still called me your love, your dearest. I called you other much worse words that I didn't really ever mean. I love you so much, but I never was able to get the words out quite right. Now I write them to you on a piece of paper. You don't have to forgive me. I don't deserve to be called your love or your dearest, but somehow you were still able to adore me. I don't ask for you to do anything more for me than to call me your love, your dearest once again and remember that I love you with all of my broken soul.
Goodbye,
Heather
Points: 564
Reviews: 9
Donate