Dear Patrick
Letter Thirty-One
Tuesday, December 17, 2014
Dear Patrick,
I've been at home for a day now. There's no mail at all. Not an email. Not a text message. You fucking asshole. It's clear to me now more than ever that you mean nothing to me anymore. You're a dick.
The saddest part about this all is that I'm not just saying this because I'm angry. I'm saying this because it's the truth and I can feel it ripping my skin open. It's been gnawing on my insides ever since I got kidnapped or taken or whatever the technological term is. I hate you, Pat. I do. I really do.
This whole time I kept convincing myself that: no, I don't hate him. I love him so much that it feels like I hate him. I kept telling myself that you mean way too much to me and that there was no way I could lose all my feelings for you in just a couple of weeks. But I'm a liar, I guess. I lied to myself, though. I'm the only person I've ever lied to. I did lose my virginity to you, dumbass. Of course I did.
Of course I fucking did.
You're just too stupid to realize anything.
I hate you. I do. I can't even say it enough. I regret losing it to you. I could've lost it to Adam. And why shouldn't I have? He didn't bail on me when he fought with his dad over some stupid insurance policy or whatever the hell you two were fighting about this time. He didn't leave the city and not leave me with anything but an address I didn't even know was real or not. He didn't come back a month later with a fucking fiancé. He didn't tell me it was either his fiancé and him or I'd never see them again. He didn't get my hopes up every single day I was stuck in some psycho's basement. No. He didn't.
You know what he did do?
He took fucking hits for me. He came back to that scary ass house every god damned time he was thrown out. He was stuck upstairs in some attic for me. He bled his insides out and he coughed mucus and germs and chemicals for as long as I did. You should see his arms. I don't think he'll ever play football again. But you wouldn't care, would you? Just as long as you're okay.
And you know what makes it even more spectacular, though?
He isn't even my best friend.
You are.
So where were you, best friend?
Fuck you and your definition of friendship. Am I supposed to tell you what that means, too? Here's an idea Mr. That's-What-Best-Friends-Do-They-Fucking-Tell-Each-Other-Things: Best friends DONT have to fucking tell each other things. You're supposed to get it. You're supposed to just know. Or is that only my job?
Am I the one that was supposed to let you leave for two months without a response and then be perfectly okay and fine when you came back engaged? Why didn't you tell me anything about that Mr. That's-What-Best-Friends-Do-They-Fucking-Tell-Each-Other-Things? Or how about you even leaving in the first place? Thanks for telling me that you were going Mr. That's-What-Best-Friends-Do-They-Fucking-Tell-Each-Other-Things, I really appreciate the warning- oh wait, there wasn't one.
What a great place the world would be if we all played by our own rules.
But that can't work.
This can't either.
I'll tell you what, Patrick. Because writing is starting to become more and more a strain, let me enlighten you, you jerk. That girl that died: I hope you never know who she is. And I really hope it kills you not to know. Because you don't deserve it. Not even a bit. Her mother deserves to see her alive again, I wish I could. I wish I could find a way to get her mother to understand why this happened but there's no words- there's no explanation. But her father, he's just like you- an ass. So good that he can't see her. You know that her father wasn't there for her? Ever? He didn't even know he had a daughter until her mom told him about it. It's because he didn't care enough to ask.
Or to even look into it.
He's kind of like you, Patrick.
He's exactly like you, Patrick.
He is you, Patrick.
Your daughter's dead, Patrick.
Dear Patrick,
I've been at home for a day now. There's no mail at all. Not an email. Not a text message. You fucking asshole. It's clear to me now more than ever that you mean nothing to me anymore. You're a dick.
The saddest part about this all is that I'm not just saying this because I'm angry. I'm saying this because it's the truth and I can feel it ripping my skin open. It's been gnawing on my insides ever since I got kidnapped or taken or whatever the technological term is. I hate you, Pat. I do. I really do.
This whole time I kept convincing myself that: no, I don't hate him. I love him so much that it feels like I hate him. I kept telling myself that you mean way too much to me and that there was no way I could lose all my feelings for you in just a couple of weeks. But I'm a liar, I guess. I lied to myself, though. I'm the only person I've ever lied to. I did lose my virginity to you, dumbass. Of course I did.
Of course I fucking did.
You're just too stupid to realize anything.
I hate you. I do. I can't even say it enough. I regret losing it to you. I could've lost it to Adam. And why shouldn't I have? He didn't bail on me when he fought with his dad over some stupid insurance policy or whatever the hell you two were fighting about this time. He didn't leave the city and not leave me with anything but an address I didn't even know was real or not. He didn't come back a month later with a fucking fiancé. He didn't tell me it was either his fiancé and him or I'd never see them again. He didn't get my hopes up every single day I was stuck in some psycho's basement. No. He didn't.
You know what he did do?
He took fucking hits for me. He came back to that scary ass house every god damned time he was thrown out. He was stuck upstairs in some attic for me. He bled his insides out and he coughed mucus and germs and chemicals for as long as I did. You should see his arms. I don't think he'll ever play football again. But you wouldn't care, would you? Just as long as you're okay.
And you know what makes it even more spectacular, though?
He isn't even my best friend.
You are.
So where were you, best friend?
Fuck you and your definition of friendship. Am I supposed to tell you what that means, too? Here's an idea Mr. That's-What-Best-Friends-Do-They-Fucking-Tell-Each-Other-Things: Best friends DONT have to fucking tell each other things. You're supposed to get it. You're supposed to just know. Or is that only my job?
Am I the one that was supposed to let you leave for two months without a response and then be perfectly okay and fine when you came back engaged? Why didn't you tell me anything about that Mr. That's-What-Best-Friends-Do-They-Fucking-Tell-Each-Other-Things? Or how about you even leaving in the first place? Thanks for telling me that you were going Mr. That's-What-Best-Friends-Do-They-Fucking-Tell-Each-Other-Things, I really appreciate the warning- oh wait, there wasn't one.
What a great place the world would be if we all played by our own rules.
But that can't work.
This can't either.
I'll tell you what, Patrick. Because writing is starting to become more and more a strain, let me enlighten you, you jerk. That girl that died: I hope you never know who she is. And I really hope it kills you not to know. Because you don't deserve it. Not even a bit. Her mother deserves to see her alive again, I wish I could. I wish I could find a way to get her mother to understand why this happened but there's no words- there's no explanation. But her father, he's just like you- an ass. So good that he can't see her. You know that her father wasn't there for her? Ever? He didn't even know he had a daughter until her mom told him about it. It's because he didn't care enough to ask.
Or to even look into it.
He's kind of like you, Patrick.
He's exactly like you, Patrick.
He is you, Patrick.
Your daughter's dead, Patrick.
Thank you guys so much!! Let me know what you think of the newest chapters!
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2/12/15