Dear Mom and Dad,
I’m sorry. It was my fault. I

...I wipe away the tears with the sleeve of my shirt.

Dear Mom and Dad,
I’m sorry. It was my fault. I shouldn’t have made you return that dress. If you hadn’t left, you would still be alive. I am a horrible horrible horrible person. I deserve to die just like you.

Megan

I sit at the table alone in the coffee shop. I watch people come in and go out. Smiles on their faces. Because everything’s okay – for them.
A woman in a work suit with heels and a briefcase orders a low-fat latte. Two of them. Probably for her co-worker, the guy waiting for her in the Mercedes outside.
A group of people my age walk in, talking and laughing to each other. They order a bunch of coffees, cappuccinos, lattes, bagels, and breakfast burritos. Probably on their way to college and shit…
Then a man walks in. Beige blond hair. Neatly done. Dark gray suit. Handsome.
He orders a Sausage, Egg & Cheese sandwich with a Cinnamon Dolce Latte.
As he’s waiting for his order, he casually surveys the room, maybe looking for a place to sit. When his eyes land on me he smiles.
Not a cocky smile or an “I’ll be fucking you later” smile.
A genuine one.
No one ever smiles at me like that except for my grandmother.
It catches me off guard…
…I slowly look away. I return to my focus to my notebook:
Grandma says it’s not my fault. But she’s just trying to be nice. Deep down, she knows it’s true. I wish she’d stop faking. She
“Hi.” The voice makes me flinch a little.
It’s him.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” he says. “I was just going to ask you if I could sit here.”
Huh…?
“Um… okay.”
He takes the seat across from me, placing his sandwich and beverage on the table.
“I hope you don’t mind me asking… but what’s a beautiful young woman like you doing sitting all by yourself?”
…Beautiful? The last person that called me beautiful was a perverted little shitface who kept trying to make me watch him feeling himself up in the library.
I shrug and then added, “I don’t know anybody… or… they know me… and don’t talk to me anyway.”
He studies me a moment. “So, you don’t have any friends…”
I shake my head.
Instead of looking at me with pity or sympathy (which I hate) he nods and starts to eat.
... So I start writing again:
She’s just waiting for me to get a job far away from here and move the hell out. Since that’s what she wants, that’s what she’ll get. I just have to
I lean on my left elbow to be in a more comfortable position.
figure something out.
Then I freeze, as the sleeve of my shirt slips off my forearm and down to my elbow…
…revealing the cuts and bruises I gave myself the other night…
I try to act as if I don’t realize they’re visible, but I feel Christopher noticing them…
“…What happened to your arm?” he asks me.
My heart races and I try to think of something to say.
“Um…I fell.”
“It must’ve been a pretty bad fall for you to hurt yourself like that…”
I nod, pull the sleeve back down and continue to write:

Impressum

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Tag der Veröffentlichung: 11.07.2011

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Widmung:
To Mrs. Shelburne - who's love and care never put suicide in my vocabulary...