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  • Writer's pictureSam Palmer



I jumped, nearly falling out of my chair. "Get out of here, Wynona!" I shooed her away sending her scrambling off the table and fleeing out of the room.

I groaned and leaned forward on the table rubbing my eyes which were aching and incredibly dry. When did I last sleep? It didn't matter. I turned to look out of the window. The sun was coming up and coloring the world golden.

Golden. Like your hair.

A flash of a memory, you tilting your head back laughing. Your hair sparkling and gold in the sun. Your hand warm wrapped tightly around mine.

I shook my head. Pressing my palms against my eyelids, forcing the memory away. It felt more like a dream than a memory now anyways. Jesus, how did I get here?

The tears forced their way from behind my palms and I briefly wondered how there was any water still left in my body to cry out. I dropped my hands, keeping them hovering over my mouth, my lips dry and cracked. I stared at the laptop open on the table in front of me. The screen lit and displaying the blank email I'd been staring at for the last three days. The cursor blinked, taunting me over and over again.

Say something. Anything. Only a terrible person. Would have nothing to say. But maybe. You are a terrible. Person. Terrible. Horrible. Selfish. Blink. Blink. Blink.

I felt sick to my stomach again but knew I had nothing else to vomit up. I hadn't eaten anything in days. Or slept. Or made any head way on my sole purpose for coming here. To write this email alone without any distractions. For healing– no. There was no healing for me, not for this. No closure. No forgiveness. So, what then? Why was I here? Well, I knew why I was here at this point in life. I could replay every detail, every choice that weaved it's way to this exact end point. But why was I HERE? At my parent's vacation house in the country. With my whiny cat, an empty bottle of Ketel One, and a cruel blinking cursor staring back at me.


It was all I had left. I needed them to understand that I hated myself too. I needed them to see that I wasn't hiding behind excuses or self-pity. I needed them to know how sorry I was. Not with the intent of being forgiven. But the kind of sorry that leaves a black stain on your soul. The more you try to wipe it away, the more it smears. Spreading further. Deeper. I wanted them to know that I would forever be stained and tarnished. But most importantly, that I never wanted to be cleansed of it. I deserved this soiled soul.

I sighed, briefly smelling my stale and unwashed breath before I swallowed down another throatful of burning bile before resting my hands on the keyboard and typing.

"Dear Mr. and Mrs. Lawson,

I am responsible for your son's death..."

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