March 3, 1999
Dear Mom,
Do promises break and cease to exist when people die? Is their existence dependent on that of the promisees? Regardless, I think I broke one today.
I'm writing to you from St. John's hospital. Don't freak out: I'm okay, just a little battered.
I've taken to riding my motorbike a lot more, and I'd started to like the kinds of things Dad warned me of when I first purchased it. Speed. Sharp turns. What you would call reckless driving.
I could have died today, Mom, and I'm not sure if I'm wholly not upset with this outcome, remaining in this world. I swear I wasn't trying to kill myself, but I wanted to feel something. Feel something other than the sadness that permeates everything I do, everything that reminds me of you. The thrill gave me a peace that, for a few seconds, masked that void in my heart. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I promised I'd be careful, and I wasn't. I'm so sorry.
My eyes are starting to close involuntarily for the pain meds they've given me, but there are a few more things I want to tell you. If you see random streaks of ink across the page, you'll know why.
The cops that came to talk to me told me I only survived because when I was thrown into a full dumpster, and if the garbage truck had come a few minutes early I would have been dead. I've got a badly bruised shoulder and arm, but no breaks. They're keeping me here to watch for signs of a concussion, which I think I might have given the way my head is pounding.
The first thing they did after the paramedics brought me in was call Dad. That was fourteen hours ago. He still hasn't shown up.
I hate feeling like I lost two parents in that stabbing.
Love,
Kate