When you read this, I will be dead.
Yes. I, Martha Bessel, have written one last journal, accounting all of my memories from my last seven years of life.
A joke of a life. I lived in darkness, afraid of everything, even my friends.
But now I'm gone.
So I hope you're happy.
I keep this letter in a small wooden box on my bed, enclosed with my journal. You may read it, you may not. I suppose it doesn't really matter anymore. I suppose I don't care what you think of me now.
If you read it, you will see how I was dying inside. How it never really did matter if my body was alive or dead, I was numb.
So then I suppose that it doesn't matter that I'm dead now. I suppose it's for the better, I won't be a burden on my friends, a ghost to my mother or something for my father to take his anger out on.
So, please, sit back and enjoy the story of the sad excuse of a life that mine was.
