Part 1 - 7 DaysMature

Day 1.

I'm sorry.

I'm so, so, SO frickin' sorry.
And I don't know if you can hear my thoughts, or read this as I spill my inky heart on to these pages, but you have to know. You have to. You have to know that I never, ever meant to hurt you, Harry, Mad-Hatter. That I loved you, I loved you so, so damn much, and I'm just so sorry that you can't be in front of me, eyes locked, lips pursed. That's how I remember your face - in its thinking position, with your eyebrows furrowed, teeth indenting your lower lip. 
Why did you leave me?

I can't tell you about the pain. The incessant, impossibly cruel pain that gnaws at my insides, like how hungry we were when we couldn't sneak downstairs to get food, except a million times worse. It kills me, Harry, but not enough. It can never kill me enough.

Day 2.

It's so hard to hold it all together. You know how rubbish I am at sewing - that's how I'm being held together. By string made slick by sweaty fingers, loosely threaded between pieces. I think the part of me full of Happiness wasn't bound half-tight enough - I can't seem to find it.

Where are you?

Day 3.

Harry. Your name slips out of my fingers so easily, but then it falls away. You're gone. You're dead. And you chose this fate for yourself.
Why didn't I see it before?

It's so obvious now, every single little sliver of glass fixing back in to the mirror. It was right in front of me, you know? But I saw it through a fractured mirror, and I never quite understood. 
I should've realized when you gave me your damn polaroid. You never would've done that before, ever - you loved that thing so much. Even though after two years, the pictures you snapped of us with it faded in to dark smudges, you still insisted to keep using it. I could've gotten those stupid pictures printed, damn it. 

It reminds me so much of you.

Everything does.

Day 4. 

Mum's worried, she thinks I have to let go. Let go of what? All my hoodies which still smell like you? All those memories which I swore to kept sacred? Everything?
I can't do that.

Not when you're coming back to me.
Because, actually, it's silly. You always prank me like that. I remember when you feigned hanging yourself three years ago by the ceiling fan, and I screamed hell down. And it was really, really idiotic of me, because we'd just seen that scene in Heathers. I could've killed you when you started laughing at me. But I didn't, because the thought of you dead really shocked me.
I should've expected it, Mad-Hatter. 

I never thought you'd do this to yourself, Harry. Why would you? 
Never mind. You aren't really dead. I know it.

Day 5.

You didn't come last night.
I hate you. I hate you so much.

Day 6.

Damn it, Harry!

Damn you for doing this. Damn you for screwing this whole thing up! Damn you for leaving me in this cold, unforgiving world, with secrets left only for my ears and promises only left half. Damn you for spilling those pills down your throat, when all you had to do was talk to me - talk to me! I was there, and - and God! 

Why didn't you realize that dropping yourself in the pond would spread ripples?
Because I'm that paper boat which was capsized by the waves.

Day 7.

Dear Harry.
Today, I went to your grave. 
It was exactly how you wanted it to be, how you described it to me only a month ago. I hadn't known why you would want to give me a detailed description of how you wanted your grave to look like - it had seemed strange and irrelevant. For what it was worth, I described mine as well.
Too bad you won't ever see it.

It was... it was beautiful, Harry, to be honest. It was like the untouched snow that obscured your front porch on New Year's Eve, when we looked up at the moon, except it had black twigs etched across it, which made legible words. It was in that slightly cursive handwriting you like, which you said reminded you of me.
Everything, you once said, reminded you of me.

I couldn't cry. I really couldn't. Because it wasn't you under the pile of moist soil; it was someone who looked like you, a nameless, soulless body. You have to be living amongst the angels, now. Or at least amongst the stars. 

I also found your note.
I was kind of looking for it, in all honesty. I didn't believe you would leave me like that, all alone. You slipped out of this world so quietly, it only left a whisper, but I hoped you knew that I would hear that whisper. You did.
I cried when I read the note, even though the first thing you did was request I not cry while reading it.

I'm sorry.
I'm really sorry for everything, Hatter. I apologize from every fibre of my being that you felt so alone. I thought I was good to you, but I was not. And that's unforgivable.
I'm sorry.

And so here I am, sitting right where you were. You must have been terrified, because I am. God, I was terrified when Will knocked the door down, I thought you had hit your head while showering, and was bleeding to death.
There wasn't blood, though.

So, I've decided to put myself in your shoes.
I've got the polaroid, the hoodies, the memories, all resting with me.
The bottle is rolling on the floor, pills rattling with the motion. It reminds me of you.

Everything reminds me of you.

And I can feel the temptation you felt. It's so tempting, to just drop everything out the window, and vanish in to a swirl of nothing. To no longer suffer from this thing we call personhood. It's alluring.
No one's home. They've all gone out to visit someone, because they think I'm okay. But that's only the words that fell from my lips; I want them to think I'm okay, otherwise they would never let me be again. They don't know how severed I feel.
How tempting it is to die.

The bottle is right in front of me.

So now I'm left with one choice.
You know I love you, though, dead or alive.

What should I do?

The End

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