When you told me about your problems, I didn’t know what to say. “I’m so sorry, Jack” “That’s really unfortunate, Jack.” A cold barrier was ever between us that I had erected and could never find the words to cross. Creating distance like that was something I simply did out of habit. Whether it was out of fear of connection or simply because it was just easier for me, I do not know. I wished I could help you with everything I had, but I simply did not know how to put my thoughts into words.

When you hung yourself with a belt in your closet on that Tuesday you didn’t show up to school; I didn't know what to say either. I couldn’t say, “Sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Fischer. I saw the signs but just didn’t really know what to say or do, so really, it’s all my fault if I’m being honest.” I couldn’t truthfully say I had no idea it was coming either. 

On the day of your funeral, I did not go. Instead, I went into your house when nobody was home—jumping over the fence and into the yard, walking past the old charred pit where we had bonfires before life became so stifled. The back door was unlocked like it always was. 

I entered your room, the door opening hushed without a creek as though it did not want to disturb the silence. I looked into that closet where you had hung yourself as if a devil lay there in the shadows. A suffocating thing, devoid of light, that which had taken you. What I first did not fully understand became clear. The shadows took form, and that devil walked out, and it said, “Come with me” as it stretched out its open hand. Temptation weighed upon me, a final pain before an endless release. In that moment, I found no profound reason to keep living or breathing. What I did find, deep within myself, was a great fear—a terrible fear of no longer being, of the simple non-existence that would follow my death.

I turned back and fled away from that devil, out of your room, out your house. I am sorry, Jack. I hope you know that. I wish I helped you, that I could change what happened, but it is too late now. The time for me to say to you any words of significance has passed. I know that what I write now only serves me and not you. Still, despite that, I want to be more open with you through these letters. I hope you can read them somehow, whether you are in some void, or some heaven, or in another life. I’ll make sure to write again next week.

Sincerely,

John