What I’m about to do makes me want to cry. But I won’t.
Never mind. The tears have just begun to swell under my eyelids and roll down my cheeks. They are splashing splash down into my crystal ashtray, and onto this very journal. This journal should have contained dozens of happy memories. But now, it reflects in words all of the events, both great and small, that I brood over each and every day. Within it you have finally discovered the mysterious nature of my life.
Mommy, now you know how much I hated you. Yet I am proud of you for conquering your demons, something I was not brave enough to do. I love you—I hate you—I never trusted you—I… I don’t know. I love you.
Daddy, I’m a man now. I’m finally a real man. When we visited the Academy together, when I was so scared and didn’t tell you, I remember wondering when and how this day would ever come.
I know I am tearing your hearts out. But I promise you will happier lives without me seething in my den above your heads each night.
I’ve always enjoyed the security of knowing, at the very least, that the events of the past year were vaulted within my mind. That nobody, save Maria and, I suppose, Megan, could even catch a glimpse of my life. It doesn’t matter now, though, because even with each and every minor aspect of the past year on paper before the world, nobody will know much more than they do already. No person could possibly know, unless he’s taken each step that I’ve taken, and dealt each blow that I’ve dealt.
All my plans have been shattered. There’s only one thing left that I have complete control over, only one swift action which will give me a pride I haven’t felt in eons. It has, I know, been a certain conclusion to my struggle for quite some time. But I’m weak. And only now have I collected the strength to do it. I have only one plan left. And this plan shall yield positive results soon.
Please note: I’m not doing this because I didn’t do what I should have done, but because, given the chance to do it all over again, I’m not sure if I’d have the courage do it right.
I can’t guide my life toward anything save an inevitable monotony of sorrow. However, at the very least, I can control precisely how it ends, as well as the words that describe it.
I’ve considered many endings for this letter—“Sincerely, A.J,” “From, A.J.”—and most recently I contemplated ending this letter with “Love, A.J.” But none of those phrases describes the situation honestly.
It’s time to pen a final journal entry which shall capture this moment like no other can. Although nobody has understood me throughout the past year, or throughout my entire life, this one sentence is as self-explanatory as the blood that spouted from Megan’s nose:
“I’m dead.”
Copyright
SMASHWORDS EDITION
PUBLISHED BY:
Anthony Prato on Smashwords
Little Boy
Copyright © 2013 by Anthony Prato
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Version 10: 9/26/2013 13:36 a9/p9