Allie

Allie,

I want to tell you that I am an emotional mess. I have been today. I feel like what I said earlier was only part of the truth. I want to tell you exactly how I feel, in full detail. I cried today. You were not just a hook up to me, I think you know that. You were not just someone to help me get over Bailey. You are Allie. I just think back to last night/this morning. You are amazing. Am I only saying this because I feel bad about everything? I don't know. I just get the feeling that somehow I just used you, and the thought of that makes me hate myself. I'm writing to you because there is something wrong. Maybe it's just me. I've caused you a great deal of pain, which I never intended to do. I told you this morning that it's not about changing the past, but how you deal with the future. Well, I'm not taking my own advice.

"I just get the feeling that somehow I just used you, and the thought of that makes me hate myself."

I need to clarify this. The reason I say this is because that is what Kevin told me that I did. What I did. What did I do? How does he know what I did? That look – the instant suspicion of guilt. He wasn’t there! My best friend. I am a convict in an orange jumpsuit. Guilty. That’s it. Just it. No questions – just guilty. I do not know how Kevin knows, I can only assume it was her, Bailey. Your sister, Bailey. Of course she knows, how could she not know. But Kevin? Why would she tell Kevin? Of all people, Kevin. Kevin the kid who launched her life into turmoil. Why does Kevin care? God that sounds like horseshit. Why. Why. Why. Why.

Fuck it. This is much more complicated then it has to be. Or is it? (You are not required to read this and have sympathy) I have no one to talk to about this. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Why didn't I think more clearly about this? I don't know. I don't know. I don't know. I am stuck talking to a computer screen. I am pathetic. Your parents have respect for me... I AM AN ASSHOLE. And it's sad because I was completely myself with you. There was no show, no mask, no facade - it was me. How could I do this? It's bullshit. I am bullshit. Right now I want to talk to you, want to be with you again, but what does that mean? What am I saying? For Pete's sake I don't know what I am saying.

Why didn't I talk to you? Why? There is something wrong with me. All I could think about was the moment. That's it. My body and yours. I need guidance. I feel like this letter only complicates the matter, but I can't stop. I can't stop typing. I can't stop feeling, thinking. Am I overreacting? I feel like I could be overreacting. All I could think about last week was seeing you this weekend. All I could think about yesterday was seeing you last night. And then this morning I said that I did not feel like we would work? Can we work? We did work. You probably aren't even going to read all the way down here. I'm sure you stopped awhile ago, these are wasted words. Useless. Dumb stupid words that I can't help but type. Fuck.

I sent you a few messages before, which you did not respond to (rightfully so). I want to give you privacy, but at the same time, I just want a chance to talk to you. Please stop reading now. Please. This is terrible, I am writing awful things - am I giving her hope? Is that what I am trying to do? Is there hope? Am I hoping that there is hope? - Too many questions. I just think back to the way I watched you think, sit there in silence. What am I doing? What am I doing right now?

Dammit. Dammit. Dammit. This is all wrong. All of this. I should just let you be.

I texted you, I hope you don't mind that. You have not responded. Does that mean 'fuck off, don't speak to me,' or maybe your phone is off? I am being weird. Very weird. I should not be analyzing every facet of this. Why am I still typing? It's useless. All I can imagine is you sitting somewhere in your house crying, but I feel bad making the assumption that you are crying. You don't have to be crying. You could be listening to music, or something, at your computer, typing, as I am. You sit there, screen blank, because you deleted the words. Line by line you type, look, stare, and then delete. Your head in your hands as you try to express something, try to tell me something. But you just sit there, frozen, the glow of the computer screen on your face.

Why am I such a mess? Don't answer. Never mind. Forget it. I'm stupid.

And somehow I believe this will make a difference. I don't know why I would think that. I am immature, just as bad as the rest of them. I thought I was a better person. Kevin looked down at me today. Kevin Casey. Kevin the kid who treats women like shit. I am Kevin. I am becoming Kevin. God. I always talk about how wrong Kevin is and how it makes me sick...I AM DOING IT. I am dishing out the same bullshit. It's hypocrisy, utter and total hypocrisy. Yet I continue to write. I don't believe I am turning into Kevin because I know that I did not intentionally do this. Fuck. I should listen to Nick, my Mom, anybody – oh give it time, time heals all wounds, talk to them, talk to anyone – anyone else has a better opinion than I do.

Nick was right. Fuck. Goddammit Nick. He should have warned me, stopped me. He should have driven to my house, when I was with you, and stopped it. But we were happy? It was right. After all I had been through with Bailey, I needed you. She killed me. Over. And Over. And Over. And Over Again. Each time more painful than the next. But I didn’t stop it, I didn’t stop the killing. Here I go again, talking about her. But why! This is not about her. God. I didn’t want to drag her into this, but she was already here. You are reading this, maybe reading this, reading about her, the one I should have been with. Each word scrapes open the wound that I gave to you. The one that I swore I would not give. You gave me the knife, looked at me, trusted me. I stared into your eyes as we sat there, alone, me with the knife. You watched as I drove it into your side and held you as you quivered.

We knew the risk. There was a risk. Should we have taken the risk? I told you I was not sure – I thought I did. I did. I didn’t. We were there, on the rocks, on the bed, in the car, we were there. Where was I? You saw me, touched me, spoke with me. I was with her, Bailey, trapped. I sat with you, deceived you, told you it was not about her. We laid there, hands locked, looking at the ceiling, trying to break the ceiling. We tried to rip down the walls, the drywall and wooden beams – tried to break through, break out, out into the night.

Why didn’t I try? I think this is me trying. But what am I trying to do? To you? To me?

The questions, the questions, they don’t stop coming. The tsunami of questions. I sit on the beach, watch, the waves they come in, slowly, and then faster. They engulf me, I see you. I look up and I see you. The water pours into my lungs, faster, I see you. I want you to be smiling. I want you to look at me and see me swallowing the water. I deserve to inhale the water, have it spill down into my lungs. The news reports, they would say it was an accident, my death, but I know it was not. The waves were on purpose. I put down my hands, ripped open the bottom of the sea, the water welling up. I watched, watched as the water rippled, shook, expanded. I was still on the beach, the sand, watching the waves come in, waiting. I looked back at you before they hit, engulfing me. You stood there, tears in your eyes, wishing I had come at another time.

I know you understand. You told me you did. You understand, yet, I feel you shouldn’t. I don’t understand. It was not faux. It was not. I don’t want to give you that hope again, the hope that everything is going to be alright; the reality as you laid there in my arms. We wanted this to be real, it was. Was. That’s past-tense – was. Dammit. I want to go back. I want to move on.

Allie, what the hell am I doing.