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  • You ripped yourself away so violently.
    Left a gaping wound in us all.
    If I saw you again I would slap you so fucking hard.

    The second to the last drink we had together, we talked of how we would kill ourselves with guns. I can't remember what we decided was the position that would most likely guarantee instant death. I wanted to ask how you did it, but I couldn't do that to your family. I would have felt like the one who pulled the trigger.

    Maybe I should have been kinder, more appreciative, more present. I wonder if I could have said anything that would have changed your mind. I wanted to mean something real to you. I guess I did, since I was one of those who received the infamous letter, in which you announced your own death.

    Of all the stories you told me, the one that sticks in my mind the most: Once you told me that a strange woman walked in your house off the street and right into your bedroom when you were a kid. You were asleep, and the woman knelt down and whispered something into your unconsciousness. Then your mom or your sister saw her and she quickly left, without a sound.

    I've always wondered who she was and what she said. I wonder if it was something soul-deep and profound. Something that you carried with you all through the rest of your too-short life, without even knowing it. But also, I've always hoped that maybe…in some way… that it could be me. That I was that woman. It's so crazy to think, I know. I don't know how it could ever be possible. But it's a strange fantasy that I can't let go of. It's the only thing I have left besides the bourbon; a secret between you and I, that will live as long as I do.
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