THIS DEALS WITH ADULT THEMES.
Please, mature readers alone.
I have never been afraid of death.
It sounds overly courageous, righteous or brave, but it's a simple fact. If I were afraid of death, I never would have become a police officer. I never would have worked under cover in a drug unit. Never would I ever have joined the homicide department, where on-the-job deaths increase exponentially. No, I've never been afraid of death.
Four months. It's all they're giving me. Four months? You've got to be fucking joking. Four months to say goodbye to my family? Four months to say goodbye to my friends? To my job? To her? I run my hand through my hair, a mere habit that I have picked up over my thirty-six years on this God-forsaken planet. Four months left to do this, too.
Just four months.
I have always had high expectations for myself. It's why I worked so hard to become a cop and to become the first female detective in an all-male unit in the history of Boston. It is why, after being released from the hospital during my first encounter with Charles Hoyt, I did only the mandatory pysch counseling that the job demanded, and not a day more. I had things to do. I had a job to do. And when I saw myself first falling in love with Maura, I reeled myself in and masked my feelings, because no where in my play book did it say I would fall in love with a girl.
But I did it anyway, because Maura was the exception to every expectation.
Except now.
Except this.
Four months?
Four months to watch her suffer? Watch her die alongside of me? Four months of watching her watching me?
This was not how I expected to die.
I pick up Jo Friday, her soft fur tickling the bridge of my nose as I give her a quick kiss to the front of her snout. I never loved dogs until Jo Friday, but she was a good dog and a good friend. I send her to my room and close the door behind her. Maura will find her later.
The couch feels harder than usual as I sit down. I run my fingers against the cushions, stopping to feel the unique dips ground into its frame from all the nights Maura and I have slept here together. There are a few stains; one from nacho cheese that Frankie spilled, another from a glass of wine that had been unceremoniously knocked over in the heat of the moment, a pasta stain from Ma and one more from a bottle of beer that Tommy dropped. They each left their mark on the couch. I try to forget how soon it will be before I make my own. I close my eyes, swallow the lump forming in my throat. This is right. This is how it has to be.
I need to die the way I always expected to die.
I stare into the barrel of my gun.
Dear Maura,
This was selfish. I know you're angry at me. I'm not here to tell you why you should pity me or why you shouldn't be angry. You have every right to be angry. I'm angry, too. I'm angry. I'm so angry.
I have cancer. It's too far gone for them to do anything. There's an envelope in my kitchen with all of the tests and prognosis. I left the number of the doctor, too. I know you'll want all that information and science babble. But the doctor gave me four months, and I couldn't stand the thought of you watching me die. It would have been cruel to put you through that. Not that this is any better, I know. I know that this was wrong. Maybe if Ma is right, I'm going to Hell. I don't really know. All I know is that I wanted to be able to decide when I was going to die. I wanted to decide how I was going to die. I didn't want some disease to define me. I didn't want to die of cancer. I didn't want to be one of their statistics.
I guess I am, though. But at least I know that it was on my own terms. I'm so sorry, Maura. I'm sorry that I wasn't strong enough. I'm sorry that I did this. I'm sorry that you're alone, now. I'm sorry that I couldn't talk to you. But I couldn't look at your face, look at how sad you would get. I couldn't bare to see you in pain, Maura. And I know this was beyond selfish. I'm so sorry.
I love you. I will always love you, no matter what I've done. I know maybe I wasn't the best girlfriend in the world. I know I could be stubborn and irrational. I know you hated my eating habits. You hated my sports, too, even though you wouldn't admit it. And I know you hate me now, and you're probably going to hate me for a long time. But I know that you will find it in your heart to forgive me one day, because you are the kindest, most compassionate, most beautiful person I have ever known. I know you forgive, and I am banking on your forgiveness to get me through the rest of this letter, because I cannot imagine a world without your beautiful smile, your beautiful heart, your beautiful everything. Please don't mourn for me forever. Please find someone that will love you in ways that I wouldn't have been able to. Find someone who will be able to grow old with you, have children with you. Someone who can do all the things for you that I wouldn't have been able to. Please let someone love you as much as I loved you, and more than that. And please let yourself love someone as much as I felt your love.
There are a couple letters in my room, in the middle drawer. Some for my parents and some for my brothers. One for Korsak and Frost, too. Jo Friday is yours if you want her. She loves you probably more than she loves me. You always fed her the good stuff, and she and Bass got along real well. Take Watson too. I loved the little guy, even if he was weird. Anything of mine that you want is yours. I put together a box in my room with some stuff. There are pictures of us, little things like that. But everything of mine is yours, Maura, because I was always yours.
I will never leave you.
Love always,
Jane
This was difficult to write and I considered not posting. This came after seeing an "ImagineYourOTP" post on tumblr, where one member of your OTP had to tell their partner that they were dying. I thought about it and Maura's grief stricken face kept haunting me. This is what came out of the prompt. This is probably one of the hardest things I've ever had to fight myself with in regards to posting.
If you or someone you know needs help, please call the Suicide Helpline (U.S) at 1-800-273-8255.