One Last Thing ✅

fifty-three things

Grams sits on the edge of my bed.

She has piled blankets on top of me and tucked me in securely. I stare at the ceiling blankly, my head full of static, as she smooths my hair away from my face. I turn over and accidentally tug on the healing wound on my wrist. An image pops into my head: ripping open that gash, letting the blood pour out again. It's only a flash of a scene, but it's enough for me to long for the knife I used to keep under my mattress. I squeeze my eyes closed and will the vision to go away.

Grams lightly rubs my back. "Do you want me to sing to you?"

"No," I say. "I just want to go to sleep."

She pauses. "Are you sure you want me to leave you alone?"

"Yes," I answer, and then, after a second, "Please."

"Okay," Grams replies, and squeezes my shoulder. "Let me know if you need anything." She rises from the bed, flicks off the lights, and closes my door softly behind her, which I think is a huge sign of trust, even though I don't really have anything in my room to hurt myself with.

When she's gone, I switch positions and stare into the darkness of my room. I can make out the familiar shapes of my television set, desk, chair, and closet. When I was little, I used to insist on having the closet door shut when I went to sleep because I imagined all the monsters that lurked inside. The logic was, if the door was closed, they couldn't escape. It was later that the envelopes started coming and I banished the real monsters inside. Now I have one more letter to add—only this time the monster is me, and I don't know if I can get away from it by hiding it in the closet.

All these years, I've been avoiding that shoebox. Pretending it didn't exist. But now I'm wondering whether that technique is very effective. If I keep running from my past, how can I face the future? How can I heal my wounds if I'm not even sure what it was that caused them?

I throw back the covers and swing my legs over the side of the bed, heart feeling like it's about to catapult out of my chest. After I cross the room and flip on the light, I turn to face my closet, which is already open. The nest of sweaters, arms all tangled, reminds me of a mess of snakes, writhing, waiting for me to come near.

"They're just letters," I say under my breath. "Only words."

The thing is, I've learned in the past few weeks that words can hurt more than anything else. I swallow and take a step closer to the closet. Breathe in. Breathe out. Deep breaths, even ones.

Then I'm on my knees and sticking my hand into the sweater mess, searching until I feel the cardboard and retrieve the box. It feels unnaturally heavy. I rest it in front of me and remove the lid. For a moment, I just stare at the blue envelopes stuffed haphazardly inside, never opened—not even one.

And then, something changes.

It's like something snaps within me, and I can't help myself, like I immediately have to know what she has to say about what she tried to do to me eighteen years ago. I rip into the envelope on top and yank out the plain piece of white paper. I scan the page quickly, barely making sense of the words.

I don't know what I was expecting.

An apology?

I guess I envisioned these letters being full of remorse and pleas for forgiveness. Instead, there's a dull description of her week in prison—the reality show she watched on television that afternoon, the dry chicken they had for dinner, the annoying way her cellmate snored.

I skip to the end.

Sincerely, Amy

Amy.