This prompt was originally given to me with "I'm writing you this letter because I know you won't judge me".
If you've already read this, it's probably because it was my pseudo chapter 50 before I realized I was saving it for a friend-iversary xD
Nat.
I'm writing you this letter because I know you won't judge me.
I admit that it's not one of my better decisions as of late. But I was desperate, home alone with the faulty light set-you know how it is. They kept flickering, on and off and on and off until I just couldn't take it anymore. I was halfway to collapsing onto the scratched tiled floors, their black-and-white becoming my pillow. The rain had been pounding on my windows for the last hour, spattering the glass panes clearly and distinctively, with the darkest sky you had ever seen. There wasn't even lightning, in which I probably would've found some comfort.
You can't blame me for doing it. You really can't. It was beyond my deepest comprehensions, arousing a manner in which I had never seen in me before, and was helpless to control. Had I been in my right state of mind, I would have stopped it. But it had been such a glorious feeling, the exultation that had rushed through me like nothing else. Like I said-I almost collapsed to the kitchen floor from the sheer ecstasy of it.
You would have understood. Damn you for leaving me home alone that night. Damn you for entrenching me within the depths of my emotions. You knew that I would fall into the depths of temptation, brimming with sinful promises that no harm would come. How long have we been living together? What was it now? Five years. You should know better by now never to leave me alone. Bad things happen when I am left in solitude, things that haunt me for days, weeks, months to come.
It will be a long time in this dim, run-down apartment, the bland, ratty living room carpeting and minimal wooden furniture just enough to pass the standards for a habitable residence. Where the TV only comes on once a week. Where we've learned to make the rats our friends-and the occasional meal. Where the cracks in the ceiling are the only appropriate method for collecting drinking water.
Where we, despite the circumstances, have managed to call our home.
I know you told me not to do it. Warned me in those low, velvet tones that I was not to do it, no matter what. That the act was reserved for you and you alone, and that should I choose to participate in it, dire consequences should occur. But alone, with these flickering lights and rain-soaked carpets, I was free. The freedom was maddening. I revelled in it, soaked it in like these carpets would the rainwater. Anything had been possible, and something beckoned to my mind, pulling me towards the kitchen, the thrill rising within my soul with every passing second. Oh, the drawer had only been a few steps away, the newest thing in this entire damn apartment.
The cool metal of the handle was at the tips of my fingers, and I itched to pull at it, to reveal the contents inside.
I don't remember much of what happened after.
I remember lying on those tiles, smears of it on my face, my arms, the evidence of the act everywhere. I hadn't felt any regret. Satisfaction, maybe, which had quickly given way to the ice cold dread settling in my stomach, balancing out the illicit thrill running through my veins.
I remember thinking that you were going to kill me. Shake me until I was no more, or throw me against the fragile wall, making it crack for the last and final time. Or, possibly throw me through the already shattered-but-not-cracked window, out into the blustery cold, down fifty feet without something to catch me at the bottom. I would see fifty feet's worth of red brick flying past me as I went down, landing with a sickening crunch on the pavement. The local police would find me later, limbs sprawled out, no expression of horror on my face.
But as much as you would want to kill me, hurt me, or scream at me until your vocal cords gave out from the strain-I knew you would never judge me for eating your stash of Swiss chocolate.
This week's icebreaker: Is there anything that you regret? (It's memoir week in my AP Lang class, of course I'm going with the one thing that fucked me up.)
See you guys soon!
