Marco,
I never knew that you'd tried to commit suicide before. I never thought about it, really. You saved me, and that was all that really mattered. I meant something to you, and that was enough for me. I was stupid, and only thought about myself.
I should have known by the way you spoke to me. You knew exactly what to say. You knew how to coax me back behind the railing, and you knew how to keep me from going for it again. I didn't even know you, but you held me like you'd loved me your whole life. A stranger. A stupid one at that. Yet you made me feel like someone in this world wanted me here.
I thought, after I was put in the hospital, that I'd seen the last of you. Maybe that would have been for the best. But no, you came to visit me. You told me your name, and gave me company, gave me your time, and brought me junk food I wasn't supposed to have, and I thought to myself "Wow, I've finally made a friend."
That's all I wanted in the world. It was selfish of me, considering my bad personality. But everyone needs that person to be there for them. And, there you were. Smiling that bright smile and telling me stupid jokes. That was perfect. That was wonderful. I laughed at every single one. Because I was happy. Another attempt never even crossed my mind, even when you left. Because I knew you'd be back soon, to keep me company, to make me feel wanted.
You were too familiar with the hospital. That should have been another clue. You knew where the bathroom was, without asking. You would always leave five minutes before it was time for medicine or therapy. No one ever had to tell you to leave. You just knew. It was strange, sure, but I was too full of bliss to question it. I didn't even notice it at the time, not consciously.
I did notice the scars. I never brought it up, because I assumed you wouldn't want to talk about it. I guess I was wrong about that. Very wrong. But I could tell it was something you didn't like to think about. You made an effort to cover them up, so you didn't want anyone to see. I'm not sure which is braver; hiding them so no one questions it, dealing with your pain silently, or putting them out in the open, to show you aren't ashamed. You were though, I could tell. And you weren't the type that liked to have people worrying about you. So I didn't.
They were something that made you more like me, but they weren't something to pity. It was a coping method, and I knew plenty of people who had been there. It never dawned on me that some of those scars could have been from an attempt. I figured they were just the normal, need of control kind, or for relief. I've never cut myself, but I can understand the idea. None of them were new though, so I could tell you'd stopped. So, in my mind, you were fine.
And you were always so happy. You would grin as soon as you saw me, and wrap me up in one of your famous Bodt hugs, and laugh at the faces I'd make. And I know better than to think that happy people aren't suicidal, but I just couldn't imagine you like that. It seemed like you genuinely loved being alive, being with me. I felt needed, and I'm sure you knew that you were too.
I fell in love with you pretty quick. It was a matter of when, not if. I think I knew, as soon as you pulled me over that rail and held me. I knew that I wanted you in my life, permanently. I just wasn't sure how, not then. But I figured it out fast enough. I'm not sure when exactly, but sometime between you buying me a bag of Funyuns and holding my hand while I threw up in the bathroom from eating too many Funyuns. (They seriously didn't mix well with my antidepressants.) And I just sort of... Knew. It was probably the fact that I had the sudden urge to kiss you till you turned blue that gave me a hint.
But I was scared. I finally had what I needed; I had a friend, someone who cared about me, that wanted me to live. And I didn't want to mess that up. I knew that you were a great guy, but it's hard to stay friends when it gets out that someone is crushing. It's just too awkward. And I was scared to lose you, so I kept it quiet.
That was the biggest mistake I think I've ever made. I wish I'd just opened my stupid selfish mouth and told you how much I wanted to kiss every freckle on your body. Even the butt freckles. If you think I'm fucking kidding, you have another thing coming. But I didn't. I just thought about your butt freckles, and wished I could make out with you on the couch in the visiting room.
And then you were gone. I wish your parents hadn't brought me your letter. I wish I could look them in the eye and say it wasn't my fault. But it is. And they hate me, they really do. They hate me enough that they left that letter with me, and there it sits, crinkled and soggy on my bedside table. I lost track of which tears were yours and which were mine.
You loved me too. You tried to tell me, and I just laughed it off. Why did I laugh it off? I got so excited when you said it, but it was too perfect. What had I ever done to deserve someone like you? So I took it as a joke. I laughed. I hurt you, cut you deeper than you ever had with a razor. You tried though, tried to cut deeper. And I guess you cut deep enough, because now you're gone, and I'm here with my guilt and a letter.
I've read it so many times that I have it memorized. Every word, every single letter. You worded it nicely, but I know what you were really saying. You felt betrayed, you felt hurt. It was my fault. You felt unneeded, unloved. It was my fault. It's all my fault. I should have noticed that you were just as bad as me, that you'd attempted it before. I was too blind to see it, and I was blind on purpose. I didn't want to think about your pain. I was stupid and scared and selfish, and couldn't be for you what you were for me.
I was too scared of losing you to save you. And I don't know what would have become of you or me if I had said something. I don't know what would have happened if I'd taken you seriously. Maybe you'd have still done it anyway, or maybe not. Maybe you'd be laying here in bed with me, sipping at some of your fruity Snapple shit and laughing at a dumb pun I'd made. Or maybe there would be a different letter on my bedside table. I don't know. All I know is life's too short to be so scared, so hesitant.
I should have said something. I should have loved you. You should be alive, and here, with me. But you aren't. All I have is some sad words, blurred against crumpled paper. Your last words.
These aren't mine. I'm going to stay alive, and remember you. You'll live on that way. That's the least I can do for you. And I promise, I'll never love anyone else. I don't deserve it. No, I'll save it for when I get where you are. I hope you're ready for it.
Love,
Jean
