hundred letters - harry styles

Letter 6

Dear Daisy,

I had a nightmare last night. I haven't had nightmares since I was in primary school, but this one was much worse than any other one I've ever had. No monsters made me sweat so much, this one had to do with you, Daisy.

So it was on our wedding day, I was waiting for you on the altar, when you finally appeared at the other side of the way, I began to tear up a little, I felt so proud, you looked so beautiful. Your hair was wavy and you had a little white rose in it, your white dress reached to your knees and you wore white high heels. Just how you described your dream outfit once, remember that, Daisy? You smiled at me and bit your lower lip, I blowed you kiss but then I saw someone appeared behind your back, it was me. I watched closely since I had no idea what another me had to do there, but then I saw myself taking a gun out of my pocket, I had no idea what was going on, first I thought that was a joke but when I placed it on your head, I knew how serious this was. I tried to stop myself but I couldn't move, I was completely frozen. I wanted to run to you so badly, I wanted to protect you from my own self. But I couldn't. And I shot you to death. That was when I finally woke up, tears rushed down my face and the first thing I did was getting my phone to call you, to make sure you're alright. But then I realized that you wouldn't pick up, you couldn't actually. That's was when I had my third emotional breakdown since you're dead. I laid on the cold bedroom floor, unable to stand up, I laid there for about three hours straight. I cried and cried and I couldn't stop, the tears poured down my face like the water drops in the shower. I felt like nothing actually, I felt so empty, I mean I do know you're dead, I accepted it and I have a plan. So why does it hit me so hard? I thought about that a long time. Maybe because a hit from reality does hurt? Maybe that nightmare was a metaphor. I watched you getting killed by me, that's horrible but there is some truth actually.

I could have stopped you, I could have said no, I don't want you to drive away. I could have said that I'll bring to the airport myself, instead of you taking a taxi. There were so many ways I could have stopped you, you would be here with me now, sitting in our bed, cuddling maybe. We would make love or sit in the new restaurant in our street. We would be laughing or kissing right now. But we aren't and that's my fault. It's like I threw away my entire life just by saying I can't bring you. If I wouldn't be the lazy ass man I am, you would be here with me, in my arms and not above me. I can't find an excuse for what I did to you, I fucked up everything that could possibly be fucked up, I lost you and you lost me. And I'm truly sorry, not only for you, but for me. I feel sorry for myself at a time I should hit myself for being such a mess. I should hate me, that's what I do. And I hurt me. I do it everyday.

I go to the bathroom and sit down on the cold bathroom tiles, then I take the razor and try to find a place on my body that isn't covered with scars, some are nearly healed, some are fresh. The razor, the only thing that makes me feel something, cuts me on the right places and gives me the right amount of (happiness) for a day. I wouldn't be able to write you every day, the razor is like coffee, it opens your eyes and you stop dreaming once you feel it inside of you. It seems crazy, I know but once you start cutting, it's hard to stop. The first thing I think of in the morning is hurting myself, so I am able to think of other things. It's like a drug, the difference is that you wear scars, people see them and they think you're a psycho. They think you're depressive and can't control your life but you do. You just need a little help...

I love you Daisy