Letter of Intent

         It was my letter of intent. The note lay on my bedside table, weighed down with emotion. It was written on college-ruled paper, wrinkled from several attempts to throw away my thoughts out of disgust and anger, but mostly fear. The purpose of the message was simple. It was the last of the willpower I had left poured into a final testament. I choose the perfect location, a bridge just down the road from the house, and selected the final four words of my note with equal care. "I love you," and, "Goodbye." Those words were not sketched with affection. It was my letter intended to hurt you.

         It took you awhile to even realize that something was wrong. Careful with how much you truly cared, you eventually noticed the stereo was too loud. The speakers blared melancholy music that creeps into the human heart, captures our darkest feelings, and forces them into the mind. The volume intensifies the experience as you pound on the door, attempting to silence noise with more noise. Fighting fire with fire. You open the door to discover the note in my place. Reaching down, you begin to scan the somber letter; that clouded, deluded mind at first not understanding the black-and-white words. Then it happens.

         It was disbelief at first, followed by anger, turned to worry, proceeded by a frantic search, and ending with a panicked flow of tears and cries of pain. All over the course of three minutes. You pick up the phone, shaking and fumbling, turning three numbers into eight. You try to speak, but all that comes out are strangled sobs. You manage to utter enough words in a coherent language to tell them what has happened. They try to comfort you, but it could already be too late. You yell, "Hurry!" and slam plastic onto plastic, silencing the little voice in your head. But another one soon replaces it, reminding you that every second wasted I'm floating away from this world. But the truth is I'm not floating. I'm falling.

         It had left you off your hinges as you yank the front door open and run. Forgetting that pretty coat, you sprint into the cold December air. The sun is about to set and in another three minutes it'll be gone. Fight or flight, veins pumping battery acid and hysterical breaths creating puffs of fog as you soar across the pavement toward the bridge. It was to be my final leap of faith. It was to be your ultimate downfall.

         You don't stop until you thrust your head over the rails and peer down onto the distant train tracks, cutting through the hillside. Nothing. Nobody. No body. You head back up the road and plunge into the dead forest to follow the path. It leads toward a secret place under the bridge, known to few. Remember how we used to go there long ago? You tear through the dead remenants of mother nature. Nurture those wounds. It's all about to end. Out of breath. Out of time. Out of path.

         You rush under the bridge to find me sitting there, in the dirt, protected by the steel shelter above us. Tiny, frozen rivers are stuck to the contours of my face. I look up at you, seeing upon your face the anguish of the last eight minutes of life washing away with relief. "Now you know what it would feel like if you had ever truely lost me." The sun slowly dips over the edge of the Earth.