I'm Sorry

       What if I told you, you never really existed. That the presence you thought you had in this world was just a figment of your own imagination. Would you believe me? What if I told you that I never actually believed that myself but someone, someone who you know very well, told me so? Would you believe me then?  Our very existence in this world is a very complicated and confusing thing, very much so that you’d be wasting time trying to understand it. I tried once. At one point time I actually believed my life matter. That I could make a tedious difference in this fucked up world of ours. Gotta love life right? Live for the here and now they tell you. Live for what you have and not for what you don’t have.

         I never asked for much, just the girl. Yeah, surprise! There always seems to be a girl in the picture right? But she ain’t just any girl. She was going to be somebody, not just anybody, but actually somebody. Somebody I thought would survive this shithole of a town and get out and make something of herself. Unlike those wannabe gangsters with jeans so baggy it wouldn't have mattered whether they actually wore a belt for once. She was different from all those preppy girls who talked s**t to people when in truth one day they will either end up as another trophy wife or just another coke addicted prostitute for that pimp down the street to slap around. She wasn't like those skinhead punks or like those wrist cutting scene kids or those goths that hung around in groups talking about slipknot and sacrificing a sheep or something. She was different. She always talked big and I actually believed her. She said that once graduation happened she would wave her middle finger high at everyone’s faces with a big smile on her face, “F**k you,” she said she would say, “F**k you and all your damn lies.” Everyone was just another big liar, even the little old grandma on the street. She had something up her sleeve. Yeah, all those baked cookies she gave out to all the neighborhood kids were laced with meth. Yeah, that’s right. Then when it became news that she died, it wasn’t of natural causes. She was actually shot by some meth dealer she forgot she owed some money to.

      She was so full of it, but I still fell for the b***h. We spent so much time together that nearly a fragment of every image that passes through my head, there was images of her. Images of us at the beach, talking, talking of the things we would do before graduation. Things we would do before we left, together. But then there is always that image of the day I woke up to realize that she had left, without me. She left a letter; she left a fucken letter, a letter in which started with the words “I’m sorry”.

       It’s all behind me now, I thought to myself one day. I went to school. I went to my classes. No images of her fluttering inside my head. But then there was that one moment where I realized I am just another one of those damn liars she kept on talking about. It wasn't behind me, it was in front in me. In front me and staring me down. It was in fact so fucken close to my face that I could feel it breathe its nasty a*s breath right under my nose. I kept finding myself staring at her empty desk, at her empty locker, at her empty seat where she sat at during lunch every day since she came to this school. I’d stared until I would fall to my knees and just to break down. It came to a point where I would just sit in a bathroom stall trying to hide from something that seem so inescapable. It killed me, it really killed me. Until one day I got a letter. A letter that was so familiar that I nearly thought I actually might have killed myself and that it was just that moment where your whole life flashes before your eyes and it was that very moment where I found the first letter. But no, it was a different letter, but with the same beginning, “I’m sorry”.

Author's Note

Ignore grammar, it is meant to written in a way to imitate every day speak