Thank you so much for the reply. :)
I run my fingers faintly over each handwritten letter on the front of the envelope, a small surge of pain shoots through me as I nervously stare at it like I have done for the past hour. I pick the letter up and I take in his scent that still lingers fragrantly upon the crisp paper. The tears sting my eyes as I picture him and I cry at the thought that one day I'll go into my memory and look for him but his face will no longer be there. Sitting the envelope in front of me once more, hands back in my lap, fiddling with them but my eyes still firmly glaring at this letter. I knew it would entail something incredibly sad and in the couple of days since his tragic death all I have done is cry for him, for our daughter and for me because he's left me, forever.
I pour the remaining contents of the wine bottle and neck it quickly, wincing at its overpowering tang in the back of my throat, burning it with its acidity. Picking up the bottle of brandy, I drench my glass in it, swirling the dark liquid before swallowing the whole measurement in one go and then I think I can do it, I have the courage to open this letter and read it but I pick it up and I just can't. I fear the contents, his words being so final and I know I'm being a coward because I don't think I can handle that amount of pain and guilt. The guilt of being the parent who is here, who is alive yet I'm left with all this stuff, this god awful feeling of emptiness and heartache. I had to tell my little girl that her father was never coming to see her again, that he's away to a better place than us and as any 5 year olds response would be she can't understand why we can't go with him too. I feel so exposed, angry with him for leaving us but most of all I feel an incredible amount of guilt for not being there when he needed us but most of all not being together from the beginning and then perhaps this wouldn't have happened.
Looking up at the clock on the kitchen wall, I study the time and realise I've been sat here since I put Grace to bed late last night. I kept her up later than usual just so I wouldn't be alone with my thoughts but here I am at 5am, giddy with the copious amounts of wine and brandy I've laced myself with. I get up and look in the mirror, the creases in my face deepening, cinching in at my blood shot eyes, stinging from all the crying I've done. I decide enough is enough and put a pot of coffee on, taking it with me upstairs with my letter, opening my balcony doors and placing them on the table. I quickly sneak into Grace's room and watch her sleep, sweeping a lock of hair from her face so I can kiss her gently on the forehead, slipping out of the room quietly and back to mine. I take off what remains of my smudged make up and take a seat outside, crossing my legs on the chair, tucking my feet in then wrap a large blanket around myself to keep away the chill, not that I can feel it, my body so numb anyway. I nimbly trail my fingers across the front of the envelope, turning it around, slicing it open with my stationery knife to reveal its beautifully handwritten contents.
The sun peeked over the hills in the distance, the dark night inky blue colours fading into the gentle yellow warmth that filled the sky as I read. His voice echoing each word he says in my head, like he's here telling me all of this. The hot tears stung my eyes as I realised amidst all this that I was reading it the way he would have wanted me to. We used to sit here in the mornings on the odd occasion he'd help me with Grace, give me a night off when I let him. He would wrap her up in her warm blankets and gently rock her back to sleep as he watched the sun begin to rise. It was his favourite time of day and his fondest memory of Grace as a baby but what I never told him was that it was my most cherished too.
I wished to stop reading, to block hearing his voice so my heart would stop wrenching because all the pain he details greatly, I can feel too but my impulse makes me carry on reading through the blurred vision. I take in every single word, each of them precious and cry with such sorrow at every admission he makes. I'm angry that he didn't phone me to tell me these things, to hear his voice one last time, to even ask us to come and visit so we could say goodbye together. There were so many moments missing in our life but the more I read, the more I come to understand that we had those, we just forget they ever existed because we want more, we always want perfection but it already is just that, perfect. I know this is how he wanted it to be and that's all that matters. He wished for nothing more than to protect us from this love but there's so many things that were left unspoken, to put right because I always thought there would be tomorrow and now there is no tomorrow, not for us.
I spot the mark against the paper, clear but evidently creased where something had been spilt and I envisage him writing this, crying because this was the only way he could say these things and it killed him as much as it kills me reading it. My salty tears mix with his, blending together like we always had done as I finish reading his last few words to me. I clutched the paper close, hugging it against my aching chest as the words welded into my mind and I cried hysterically. I longed for his arms to wrap themselves around me, grip hold of me in a tight embrace, whispering softly in my hair that everything would be alright but it never will be, not after this. Not without my soul mate.
There is no smoke without fire.