A/N: Correction, this is the longest chapter I've ever written! (10.7k!)
Can Heaven fall into my lonely Earth?
'Cause Hell is where I know you won't return
-Dayseeker, Neon Grave
Warnings: Suicide & The Aftermath
PART ONE: A Sample of the Letters
March 4th, 1993
Ryan,
I feel stupid doing this, but the grief counselor I've started seeing suggested that writing to you might help me heal. He thinks writing down the shit circling my fucking mind on a loop and getting it all on paper will help me move on.
As if I'll ever be able to move on from you.
It's been two weeks since you left, and I know I'll never be the same. It's like the pain of losing you goes so deep that it's permanently mutilated my DNA.
Dr. Grief-Master (that's what I like to call him) is alright I guess, but he's pretty shallow. He went into a whole spiel the first time we met on how he lost his brother ten years ago and that's why he got into counseling. Like that's supposed to make him qualified? His fucking brother? Maybe it's wrong of me to say, but that's fucking baby shit compared to what I've lost. Once he has to hold the love of his life's cold corpse in his arms, or has to watch his dead child be born, then he can teach me about grief. Dude has absolutely no idea what it feels like to have your heart ripped right out of your chest and stomped into the dirt.
Why am I going to someone I deem unfit to help me, you ask?
Because I'm an idiot, Ryan, that's why.
You already knew that, but I've hit a new low. Like, the lowest of the fucking lows. I didn't even know I could go any lower than the shit I used to pull in my twenties. But here I am, at the bottom of the fucking hole, wondering if I'll ever find my way back up.
Did you realize you left about ten dollars worth of junk in the black bag under the bathroom sink? Did you leave it there to taunt me? Or were you trying to give me a moments reprieve from the fucking hell you left me in? Did you just not give enough of a fuck to make sure that the house our four year old daughter lives in was clean before you killed yourself? Or were you just so wrapped up in trying to get away from us that it slipped your mind?
Whatever it was, I found it about a week ago and I used it. I mean, how could I not?
Now, maybe it wouldn't have been so bad if it wasn't on the day of your funeral. The day I had to stand in front of a hundred people and give a speech about you and your life and what you fucking meant to me.
Did you know that we even knew a hundred people? I didn't. There were people there we hadn't seen in years, Ry. People that didn't give a damn to check on you after we lost the baby. People that didn't even have the fucking decency to pick up the phone and call after it was plastered across the papers. Layla was there. Fucking Donna was there, for Christ sake! Why she thought she had the privilege of coming after all the shit she pulled with you, I have no fucking idea.
Her nose is still crooked, by the way. It's actually pretty funny looking.
I don't know why we had a real funeral anyway. I guess Sharise and I were just too exhausted and sad to plan something cool like you guys did for Riley.
Maybe after the third or fourth death in your life, you just stop caring to do cool shit for people that aren't even there to see it.
Sorry, I'm getting off on a tangent. I'm supposed to be telling you what happened.
So, I'm up there in front of all these people, talking about you and how great of a wife and mother you were, even though I didn't believe a fucking word of it, because what kind of wife and mother abandons her family? But, whatever. I'm up there spouting all this sappy bullshit, and guess who walks in?
That's right, fucking Slash.
Ry, I don't think I would've kept it together even if I was sober. I don't know if you expected me not to find out or just didn't care if I did or not, but I know it was him that gave you the shit. I know he gave it to you at the school on the day you finally got out of bed.
So, understandably, I instantly filled with rage when he tried to slink into the back row unnoticed. It felt like someone had poured hot lava in my veins, and I just fucking lost it.
I called him out. Literally, in front of everyone, I asked him what the fuck he was doing there, and why he thought he was invited after everything he's done. He just kinda stared at me, and the stupid look on his face like he didn't know what I was talking about just pissed me off even more.
Keep in mind, I'm high. I don't have much self-restraint even in my best of times, but heroin devours every last tiny shred of it.
I laughed. I laughed so fucking hard that I cried, and then I invited him up to the front to give a speech. I told him he's always wanted to take my place and be your husband so bad, so now was the time to take it from me. I told him he could do the husbandly duties of giving your eulogy, because he probably had a lot nicer things to say than I did anyway.
But before he could do that, I had to introduce him to everyone, right? You'd think that everyone knew your history with him after the whole MTV Awards debacle, but the gasps that filled the room when I announced he was the man that fucked my wife were deafening.
By this point, Tommy's out of his chair trying to calm me down, Tom's telling me I'm disrespecting your memory, Sharise is crying, and everyone else is staring at me with wide eyes like I'm about to go on a murder spree.
But did I stop?
Fuck no!
I had to tell the whole building that he killed you! And that, man, set off a frenzy. Tommy's physically holding me back, Tom's out of his chair, Sharise is horrified and yelling my name, and you know what Slash is doing? He's fucking crying!
Crying, Ry!
And that just really fucking got under my skin. How can he cry when he gave you the gun that killed you? He's not stupid. He knew what you were going through. He saw you rail thin and washed out. He knew what you were going to do, or at the very least he knew that you were being reckless. He could've saved you. He could've come to me like a man and told me what he gave you, and maybe I would've been more insistent on you getting help. He didn't have the fucking right to cry.
I said all that out loud, too. Then the bastard started crying even harder and tried to leave. But I couldn't let him. I'm not proud of what I did, Ry, but I was so far gone that I was not the one consciously making my decisions anymore.
I don't know how, but I got out of Tommy's grip and side stepped Tom and ran after him. I think something just took over me, because I'm normally not that coordinated when I'm on junk, but I caught up to him and just fucking slammed him to the ground as hard as I could.
I beat the holy hell out of him, Ry. I can still hear the crunch of his cheekbones and I can still see the waterfall of blood pouring onto the gravel beneath us. My knuckles are still fucked, I can barely bend my fingers without pain shooting up my arm.
But that's not even the most embarrassing part of the story, if you can believe it.
He let me beat him. Maybe he felt guilty, like he wanted to be punished? I don't know. He just kept saying that he was sorry in between punches and I broke down. I started sobbing, asking him if he knew why you left me over and over. I asked him why I was never good enough for you to stay. I asked him what I did wrong, if it was my fault. I collapsed into him and he held me. He held me, Ry! How fucking mortifying!
I went into a whole other world out there in the parking lot, in another man's arms. A man I fucking despise. But maybe I needed that, because he might be the only other person to understand the pain of losing you like I do.
We stayed like that for what seemed like hours, but in reality was probably only a couple minutes, until Wylie finally got away from Sharise and ran outside.
I forgot to mention that she was there, and she saw everything. We couldn't find childcare since everyone we knew of would be at the funeral, so we decided to just take a chance and see how it went. She deserved to be at her mom's funeral, too, right?
Wrong. Obviously, it went awful.
You know how I know she's 100% your child? She heard me announce to everyone that he killed you, so she punched him in the face. She screamed at him for killing her mommy, and it wasn't until that moment that I finally snapped out of it.
My four year old was trying to fight a grown ass man. I was very clearly failing as a father. The anger and resentment that's been seeping out of my pores since you left had flowed into her, and she didn't know how to handle it. She saw me punch him, and she thought that's what she was supposed to do. How fucked is that?
I grabbed her and tried to calm her down while Sharise was trying to take her from me and berating me for ruining everything. By this time, half of the people were outside.
They didn't come for a show, but they sure as hell got one.
I apologized to Sharise, and Wylie and I just left. I didn't know what else to do. I needed to get the fuck out and, more importantly, I needed to get Wylie the fuck out.
I don't know what to do, Ry. I'm already failing her and it's only been two weeks. I'm not built to be a single parent. Why did you leave it all to me? Why did you put it all on me? I can't fucking do this shit. She needs a fucking mom.
She needs you.
I'm so fucking mad that you didn't give a shit what would happen after you left. I'm so fucking mad that you not only ruined my life, but our daughter's life. Why didn't you fucking care, Ry? Why didn't you think it through? What the fuck are we supposed to do without you? I hate you so much for doing this to us. I'm just so fucking angry, and I don't know that I'll ever not be angry.
But I think what I'm angry about the most is that the overwhelming love I've always had for you is now forever tainted with hate.
I gotta go. I'm starting to cry again and it's getting on the paper.
I hate you. Fuck you. I love you.
Nik
March 7th, 1993
Ryan,
It's two o'clock in the morning, and you know what I'm doing?
Sitting in front of our daughter's bedroom door while she absolutely annihilates everything inside.
Seriously, all I can hear is her screaming and shit shattering against the walls. She woke up about an hour ago in fucking shambles, screaming for her momma, and I guess when it clicked that you weren't here she just lost it.
Sharise had been staying with us for a while, but I told her that she could go home yesterday. I could tell she was exhausted and needed some time to herself, and she's never really forgiven me for the scene at your funeral. So, I'm alone.
I guess I'm gonna have to ask her to come back, though, because I have no fucking idea what to do right now.
I tried to calm her down. I tried to hold her and rock her, and I even tried to sing to her like you used to, but it didn't help. She told me I wasn't you and to get the fuck out of her room. She slapped me and started ripping shit off her bed. I tried to hold her down and she scratched my face. After she started tearing down the pictures on her walls that she could reach, I just came out into the hallway and shut the door. I don't know how to help her, and I'm hoping that maybe she just needs to get this out of her system.
She's fucking four, Ry. She's four, and the only thing she knows to do to cope with her feelings is tear shit apart.
This is your fucking fault.
I hate you. Fuck you. I love you.
Nikki
April 4th, 1993
Ryan,
Wylie went back to school today after a little over six weeks off, so I'm sitting in the basement all by myself.
I won't pretend that I'm not glad she went back, and I think she is, too. It's been hell, Ry. Absolute fucking hell. I'm failing. I'm failing so fucking hard. She wakes up in fucking terror at least four nights a week, and she just goes on these rampages where she destroys everything in her path. I've had to take down the pictures I don't want broken, and I've had to replace more shit than I can even count. I've spent thousands of dollars in a month.
She hates me now, too. Her favorite phrase is, "you're not my momma." She never lets me forget that I'm not as good as you, and it stings every fucking time she says it. She gets pissed when I tell her no to anything, and she hits me or kicks me or scratches me. She's so fucking angry, and I just don't know how to help her. Sharise and I decided it was best if she saw a professional, so I took her to Dr. Grief-Master. But the little shit won't talk. She just sits there and flat out ignores him, or pretends she has to go to the bathroom.
You broke her. You literally broke a four year old. How does that make you feel?
He suggested getting her back into a routine, so I called the school and made them aware of her new affinity for being an asshole, and they still welcomed her back. God, I hope it goes well. I'm waiting for the phone to ring any second with the principal telling me to come pick her up, because she beat up some innocent classmate.
She was happy to go back, though. But I think she just wants to get away from me.
She wants to know how you died, but I just can't tell her the truth. I lie and say it was an accident, that it was nobody's fault. I think she knows I'm lying, and I think she hates me for that, too, but what am I supposed to tell her? I can't tell her you left of your own volition. How would that make her feel? She'd be even more angry, if that's even possible. I don't want her to feel the pain that suffocates me every minute of every day. She's too young.
Sometimes I think it'd be better if we act like you never existed at all.
I spend most of my time in the basement, because it's the place that reminds me of you the least. It's always been my space, and I'm so fucking thankful I have a place to get away from you. I think I want to move and get away from you completely, but the part of me that loves you won't let me.
Fuck. The phone's ringing.
I hate you. Fuck you. I love you.
Nikki
P.S.- It was just a telemarketer, thank fuck.
May 17th, 1993
Ryan,
Well, it finally happened.
Wylie got expelled from school today for punching a boy in the nose then kicking him in the balls.
I could've sworn she was doing better, but I think Sharise leaving threw her back a few steps. I asked her to come back after the first night Wylie went on one of her rampages, and she graciously stayed for another month and a half. It all seemed to settle a little bit, I think because Wylie kinda felt like she had a mom again. She's not you, and she'll never be you, but I think just the female presence calmed some of the anger in Wylie.
But now that she's gone, we're back to square one. I can't ask her to come back again. She's put her whole life on hold to help us, and we're gonna have to learn how to function on our own eventually. She still comes over a few times a week to hang out and help around the house, even when I tell her she doesn't have to. Those days are the only days Wylie and I get along. She still hates my guts. Just the look of me disgusts her sometimes. I think she blames me for your death, and I can't hold that against her.
It is my fault. I'm still so fucking angry and I still fucking hate you, but I can acknowledge my faults now. I didn't get you help. I didn't push you to get help. I knew you going up to Slash that day was a bad idea, and I know I should've pushed you to tell me what you said to him when you got back in the car. I shouldn't have let you leave that night. I should've followed you. I should've gotten to the beach in time to stop you.
This is the kind of shit that plays in my brain on a daily basis. Didn't you realize that I'd torture myself when you left? Didn't you care? I'll never forgive myself for the shit I didn't do, and I'll never forgive you for what you've done.
I'll never forgive you for leaving that black bag under the sink either. That's probably the worst thing I think you've done, because now I can't stop. I can't function sober. I can't do fucking anything without being high. If I'm not high, I'm you three months ago- stuck in bed. And I don't get the privilege of doing that like you did, because I'm all Wylie has now. Even if she hates me.
Maybe she hates me because she can tell I'm high. I don't hold that against her either, because I hate you for being high, too. God, I hate you for so many fucking things.
I have to go. Wylie's screaming again.
I hate you. Fuck you. I love you.
Nikki
June 5th, 1993
Ryan,
Sometimes I wake up and roll over in bed in search of you, because it takes me a minute to remember. Then it hits me like a fucking freight train, like you've just died all over again. Do you know how fucking miserable it is to lose the love of your life over and over and over again? I have to relive the worst moment of my life on repeat. Will it ever stop?
I miss you so fucking much that it feels like someone is ripping out all my organs right from my throat. My blood stings when it pumps through my veins. My feet hurt when I walk. My mouth hurts when I talk. My clothes feel like they're full of tiny little pin needles, stabbing me as I move. My hands feel like they're on fire when I hold things. They're on fire now holding this pen, and this sheet of paper feels like sandpaper rubbing my flesh raw.
I can't stand it, Ry. I don't know how to live without you. I don't know how to do anything. I'm failing at just being fucking alive. How is that even possible?
I can still hear your voice sometimes, and I swear to God it sounds so real that I just break down into tears. I dream of you so often, and I pray every night that I won't wake up. I hold pictures of you while I fall asleep and try to picture you coming to take me away. I want to stay in my dreams with you. I don't want to be out here, Ry. I don't want to do this shit anymore. I want to be with you.
I'm not even angry anymore. I'm just so fucking sad that it hurts to breathe. My lungs feel like they're full of water. I love you so much that it took everything about me away. I don't know who I am without you. I'm nothing. I'm no one. I'm a waste of fucking space.
Please come get me tonight.
I hate you. Fuck you. I love you.
Nikki
June 6th, 1993
Ryan,
Why didn't you leave me a fucking note? Why didn't you leave me an explanation? Was I not worth it? Were you in too much of a rush to leave?
All I wanna know is, why?
Why did you fucking do this?
Why didn't you fucking come to me and tell me you needed help?
Why didn't you go to anyone and say you needed help?
Why didn't you try harder?
Why didn't you try at all?
Why did you only want one last family day when you could've had a fucking lifetime of family days?
Why didn't you call me from Tommy's before you went to the beach?
Why was I not worth one last goodbye?
Why did you ruin the one spot on the planet I feel closest to you?
Why was I not worth living for?
Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?
WHY DIDNT YOU LEAVE ME A FUCKING NOTE???!
I fucking hate you. FUCK YOU. I love you.
Nikki
June 7th, 1993
Ryan,
I'm sorry about yesterday's letter.
I think I'm going insane.
I hate you. Fuck you. I still love you, no matter what I say in these letters.
Nikki
July 7th, 1993
Ryan,
I finally found a good school for Wylie. It's a cute little secluded place on a ranch about forty-five miles from Beverly Hills that specializes in kids with behavioral problems. It's a drive, but I don't mind it if it actually helps her. I took her with me to tour the place and she about died when she saw that they have horses. I'm hopeful that this will help her. I need it to help her. Maybe if she gets better, I will, too.
I'm struggling pretty hard. Everyone can tell that I'm using now. Even though I try to write the forty-pound weight loss off to grief, no one believes me. Sharise wants to move back in, but I don't know if that's a good idea. Wylie has just started to get used to it being just me and her. She doesn't look at me with a sour face as much, and she hasn't told me that I'm not you in about a week. She even watched a movie with me the other day, and she fell asleep in my lap. It's the first time she's touched me with anything besides anger in a long time. It was so nice, Ry, knowing that she still loves me. That I still have someone that loves me. She still won't talk in therapy, so I think I'm just gonna pull her out.
I stopped going, too, by the way. These letters help me more than spilling my guts to some random jack off anyway. Besides, he started talking about rehab and that's never gonna happen.
Tommy helps sometimes, too. He takes Wylie out to the park and different kid's places, because she's always loved being around him. I think she needs someone like him in her life that's not drowning in sadness. He's always so goofy and he's always smiling, which is something I don't know how to do anymore.
This shit sucks, Ry. It's not getting any easier. I'm starting to think it never will.
I hate you. Fuck you. I love you.
Nikki
September 15th, 1993
Ryan,
I was right about Wylie's school, it's definitely making a difference. She's smiling again. She's calling me daddy again. She hasn't told me that I'm not you in months, and she hasn't broken or hurt anything in a month. It's been so hard with her, Ry. This feels like such a huge accomplishment for both of us, but I don't feel any better. I'm jealous that she seems to be forgetting. I'm jealous that she's starting to feel better. I'm jealous that she's seeing the light at the end of the tunnel, and I'm not. I'm jealous of my fucking kid, Ry! Why? Do I need her to be miserable with me so I feel less lonely? How fucked up is that?
I can't stand myself anymore.
I hate you. Fuck you. I love you.
Nikki
November 24th, 1993
Wylie turned five today.
It's her birthday, and you know what I'm doing?
Shooting up in the bathroom, because all I can think about is you asking me to marry you five years ago. I was so fucking happy that day, Ry. Then you took it all away from me. Why did you take it all away from me? We said for better or for worse. Why did you give up at the worst? I would've never given up on you. Never.
I think I need help, Ry. I'm getting worse.
So much worse.
I hate you. Fuck you. I love you.
Nikki
P.S.- Wylie is celebrating her birthday with Tommy and Sharise and the kids at Disneyland. So, don't worry, she'll still have a good birthday. Just not with me.
November 28th, 1993
Ryan,
Happy Thanksgiving.
This shit sucks without you. Everybody's here. Sharise made a whole spread for all of us, but I'm back in the bathroom doing you-know-what.
I think I really do need help.
I hate you. Fuck you. I love you.
Nikki
December 25th, 1993
Ryan,
Merry Xheisrmas.
Oops- Christmas. HA!
Fuck. I'm so fucked up.
I hate you. Fuck you. I love you.
Nikki
March 24th, 1994
Ryan,
I'm sorry it's been so long since my last letter. I got to the point where my hands were too shaky to put pen to paper. I'm sure you could tell by my last letter that my using has hit rock bottom.
You wanna guess where I am?
Rehab. I'm back in fucking rehab.
Pam and Tommy threw me a wonderful little intervention last week. They had written letters to read out loud and everything, and even had Wylie come in for a brief moment to tell me that she wants me to feel better and that she loves me. They didn't tell her what was going on, of course, just that I was struggling without you and needed to go away to get help like she gets help from school and her horses. She understood that, and her only concern was for me to go to a place with horses myself.
It all came to a head on the one year anniversary of your death. I honestly don't know how I'm still alive after all the shit I plunged into my veins that day. Tommy took Wylie to the beach to finally spread your ashes while I stayed home and almost did the same shit you did.
I don't want to go into that, though. I don't remember much, and it's too painful to try.
You're probably wondering where Wylie is if I'm locked in here. Don't freak out, but she's living with Tommy for a couple months.
I know, I know. It wasn't my first choice either, but tragedy has struck our circle once again.
We found out that Skylar had cancer right after Christmas, and she passed away last month. It was fast and it was fucking brutal, and Sharise is in no state of mind to take Wylie. I would never ask her to either. That woman has been put through the ringer, and she more than deserves all the time she needs to heal. But it was fucking awful, Ry. Besides you, I've never seen anyone so crushed. I'm not even gonna go into how Wylie reacted to losing basically her only friend, because it's just too fucking painful for me to think about. She's lost so much, and I just pray that one day she'll get a break.
You should've thought about who would need you before you left. You had been through things that could ultimately help someone else. You would've been the perfect person to help Sharise through her grief, but you weren't here. She cried for you when it happened, you know. She needed you, and you just didn't give a fuck. It's another thing I'll never forgive you for.
I'm trying to work through all of my anger and resentment towards you in here, because the therapists say it's a big part of my using. To which I said, duh? My wife killed herself, why wouldn't I be using? But, whatever. At least I'm trying, right?
I don't know if it's going to stick, because being sober just makes everything ten times fucking harder. I forgot how awful withdrawal is, but it just made my body finally match my brain, so I guess it wasn't that bad.
It's the mental aspect that gets me. I can't go five minutes without breaking into tears. I'm crying right now, actually. I'm always fucking crying.
I just don't know how to be a person anymore, Ry. I really don't. I don't want to be here. I don't want to be alive. Without you, it's just not worth it. I'm tired of being alone. I'm tired of shouldering raising a child all by myself, even if she is a pretty great kid. I just think she'd be better off with someone else.
Is that what you thought? That she'd be better off with me?
Well, the jokes on you. You couldn't have been more wrong.
Rehab reminds me of you even more than the house does. Memories of the first two months we knew each other feel like knives diving into my chest every fucking day here. I wish more than anything that I could go back and do it all over again. Maybe I could save you. Maybe I could just go back and not meet you at all, and save myself a world of heartache.
I miss you, Ry. I still miss you so much. I just don't know how much longer I can hold on.
I still hate you. Fuck you. I still love you, too.
Nikki
May 30th, 1994
Ryan,
Well, I'm out.
Don't know if I should be out, but I'm out.
I don't feel any better. If anything, I feel worse. But I guess the only thing that matters is I don't want to stick poison in my veins anymore. I know heroin isn't helping me. I thought it was, but it's not. So, I guess that's progress?
Wylie was so excited to see me that it almost made me happy. Almost.
We sat and talked for an hour about what I did with the horses, and how it compared to what she does with her horses at school. It was nice to finally have something in common with her, but now we're gonna have a lot more in common than I thought we would thanks to Tommy.
He decided that he was gonna teach her how to play the drums while she was staying there. You know he'd gotten her a nice kid's set a while back, but I mean he's really teaching her. And she's actually pretty fucking good. She was so excited to show me the simple songs she can play, and the smile plastered across her face the entire time almost made me happy again.
There's that word again- almost.
My life is full of almosts.
I was too nervous to go to the house, so we're staying at Tommy's tonight. I don't know if I want to go back there, Ry. It hurts too much. I had Sharise pack all of your stuff when I was in a heroin rage a couple months ago, but you cling to the walls. It's not your stuff that keeps you there, it's the fact that it was your home. Our home. Every room has some type of memory, and I just can't stand to live with your ghost anymore. Maybe I'll start looking at houses tomorrow. I don't know.
I want to try to move on. I just don't know if I can, Ry. I don't know that I'll ever be happy again.
I hate you. Fuck you. I love you.
Nikki
March 4th, 1995
Ryan,
It's been two years that you've been gone, but it still feels like just yesterday that I was holding your corpse on the beach. I wish I could forget that day, but it's burned into my brain so deep that I still dream of it at least once a week.
Wylie still asks about how you died, and I still just tell her it was an accident and that it was nobody's fault. She's still too young to know the truth, and she's been doing so well lately that I just don't want to throw her behind again.
Her school is truly amazing, Ry. It may be the only parenting win that I have. She gets to work with animals, and her favorite part of the day is when she gets to go read her library book in the stalls. She reads to the horses for thirty minutes, and she swears they snort and neigh when she reads something funny.
She hasn't gotten in one fight, and besides a few bad days here and there at home, she's back to being the goofy ass kid she always was. Maybe even more so, but I blame the two months with Tommy.
We ended up staying with Tommy for a month after I got out of rehab, until we found a nice four bedroom cottage type thing in his suburb. It has a pool and a hot tub, which Wylie thinks is the coolest shit since sliced bread. She learned to swim in two days. I wish you could've seen it.
The best part about living so close to Tommy is that we can walk to his house a few times a week for her drum lessons. She's so good, Ry, it's almost scary. She's six years old and she can play Shout At The Devil better than Tommy can. Soon enough she'll be writing her own music. Maybe she'll end up in a band if she doesn't end up being a vet.
I've almost been clean for a whole year, and it's the hardest shit I've ever done. I always had you to help me stay clean, but now I have to do it on my own. I don't know how I haven't picked up again, but I'm sort of proud of myself.
I still wake up and search for you, even though I'm in a new house with a new bed. It still hits me just as hard, and I still cry myself to sleep almost every night.
I still don't understand why you did this. I still don't understand why you didn't leave me a note. I'm trying to move on and let go of all the hatred I feel for you, but I just can't. I think I won't be able to until I get some sort of understanding on why you left me.
You're as much a part of me as the blood that recirculates in my veins. I'll never stop loving you, Ry. Never.
I hate you. Fuck you. I love you.
Nikki
March 4th, 1997
Ryan,
Well, it finally happened.
One of the kids at Wylie's school told her that you didn't die in an accident and that you killed yourself. The pile of tears and nerves she came home in is another thing I'll never forgive you for.
She asked me why, and I didn't have an answer. She asked me what might've happened that made you want to die, and I had to tell her about the brother she never got to have. She's eight fucking years old. Do you know how hard it is to explain this shit to an eight year old?
Her knowing what really happened did exactly what I feared it would, and she's back to fighting and tearing apart everything she can get her hands on. I had to hide all of the glass and the expensive art work I bought when we got this house, but my plaque for Dr. Feelgood didn't make it through her wrath. She's so mean to Frankie that I've had to temporarily stop visitation.
She punched the kid as soon as he told her, and about three more kids after that. Thank God her school is equipped to handle her, because I don't think she would make it without the horses. They're literally the only solace she has now that her drum lessons have been cut out since Tommy's in jail. I don't want to go into that now, though. I'll just tell you that him and Pam have broken up.
One plus is that she doesn't hate me like I thought she would, but I can tell that she holds a little bit of resentment toward me for not saving you.
It's you she hates now, and I don't blame her one fucking bit.
I still hate you, too. Maybe even more than I did.
You re-broke our daughter again.
I hate you. Fuck you. I love you.
Nikki
March 4th, 1999
Ryan,
It's been six years that you've been gone now. Longer than we even knew each other. I really expected it to get easier by now, but it hasn't. I'm stuck in this infinite loop of misery for the rest of my life.
Wylie is doing well, though. Can you believe she'll be eleven years old this year? God help me through her teenage years, because she's a spitfire. It took her a while to make peace with the fact that you killed yourself, but she came to it a lot quicker than I did. She has a picture of you and her at some ice cream shop up above her bed, and she tells you goodnight every single night before she goes to sleep. I don't know how a ten year old has more sympathy for you than I do, but maybe she just has a better heart than mine. Mine's still too broken to be good.
She's still at the same school, and they're still amazing. She got student of the month this month, and Tommy and I went to the little ceremony they throw. She was so proud, Ry, holding her plaque with her name on it against her chest while people took pictures. She's so happy, and I'm still so jealous of it. She hasn't gotten in a fight in almost a year, and the last fight she got in was actually justified, because the kid was making fun of her friend despite her asking him to stop. She broke his nose by head-butting him. She got that from you, and I'm not mad about it as long as she uses it for good.
And her drum playing, Ry, holy shit! She can run circles around Tommy now! She's already started creating her own music. I walked into her playing something I've never heard before, and she got all embarrassed and wouldn't tell me where she got it from. It was adorable.
I saw Slash the other day. It was pretty damn awkward, but he made the point to come talk to me and apologize for the part he played in your death. I told him the only person at fault was you, and I could tell he was surprised I said that. He looked a little rough, but he's starting a new band, because Guns exploded thanks to Axl's ego. Whatever, I don't care to talk about him anymore.
I finally went on a date last week. I don't know if you want to know that or not, but if it makes you feel any better, it's not gonna go anywhere. I'm still too in love with you, and I don't know that I'll ever not be.
This shit still sucks, Ry. I still dream of you. I still cry for you. I still forget sometimes, and when I remember it knocks my breath away. I have our wedding picture on my nightstand, and I talk to you on the nights that I'm too tired to write to you.
I still hate you, but I wont say fuck you anymore. I love you.
Nikki
October 16th, 2000
Ryan,
I found out what fucking song Wylie was playing when I thought she'd started writing her own music. I know it was the song you wrote with Tommy on the night you died.
She started playing it when I was in the room, and Tommy immediately jumped up and told her to stop. She yelled at him that I was gonna have to listen to it eventually even if I didn't want to, but he refused to tell me what she was talking about.
Apparently he plays it a lot when he misses you, and she walked in early for one of their practices when she was nine years old and he couldn't lie to her about where it came from. She was nine years old when she heard your voice singing about how you wanted to die! Just add it to the list of things I'll never forgive you for!
How could you fucking write something like that? How could you fucking write a song, but not leave me a note? Is the song supposed to be your note? If so, it's fucking bullshit!
Fuck you, Ryan!
Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you!
You're fucking DEAD and you're still finding ways to tear my fucking heart out!
I hate you, and I'm back to saying fuck you. I don't want to love you anymore.
Nikki
March 4th, 2001
Ryan,
I don't know why I still write to you. It doesn't help. I'm still in the same pit of fucking hell I was when you died eight years ago.
Wylie had her first show with her band tonight. She was amazing. She hit every cue and rocked the fuck out so hard that her hair was flying everywhere. It was only a little backyard show at one of her friend's birthday parties, but the crowd ate up everything they played. They covered Without You, and I just stood in the back and sobbed. It was embarrassing.
You could see it in her eyes when she came off the stage, the high musicians get from a perfect set. Even though she was sweaty and out of breath, I don't think I've ever seen her look so beautiful. She looks more like you the older she gets. Her cheek bones are becoming more prominent, and her smile is just as big as yours was. Unfortunately, she got your eye sight and had to get glasses last year. She picked ones that look like yours, because she always thought you were so beautiful in the picture she still has hanging above her bed.
She wants to talk about you more and more each year, and I do my best to answer her questions and share my memories, but it's just so damn hard. I need to get better about that, because she mainly just goes to Tommy for those conversations now.
This still sucks so bad, Ry. Will it ever get easier? It's been so long, I really think I'm always going to have a hole in my heart. I just wish you were here. I wish you could see our baby grow up. She wants to know you so damn bad, and you should've been here to give her the chance.
I hate you. I'm out of fuck yous. I love you.
Nikki
March 8th, 2002
Ryan,
I owe you an apology.
I found it today.
Wylie and I were going through your stuff in storage to see if she wanted to take anything, and she found your purse that I didn't have the strength to go through before I told Sharise to pack all your shit.
Wylie wanted to go through it, but I wouldn't let her since I didn't know what was in it, and there it was. Just laying in the bottom of your bag under your wallet and chapstick was the letter I thought you never cared enough to write.
I'm gonna glue it onto this page, because I've put these hundreds of letters in a binder to keep and I want it to be safe.
Nikki,
I don't know how to start this. I don't know what to say at all, really. Maybe you won't even have to read this. Maybe I'll fail. Maybe I'm just wasting my energy writing this.
But if you are reading, I guess I'm gone.
I'm sure you're looking for some sort of explanation. Some sort of reasoning as to why I've done what I've done. Maybe you're hoping it would make you feel better, but I don't have much of one for you.
Tragedy has followed me since I was eight years old, and I'm just so tired of trying to piece myself back together in its wake. I can't do it anymore. I don't have the strength and I no longer have the will.
I think it's me, Nik.
I think it's me that's caused the awful things that've happened in my life. I think there's something inside of me that death and misery and morbid misfortune just cling to. Like a broken bone that never healed right, that darkness will always be there. I can never get rid of it. I can never fix it.
And I just can't do it anymore. I can't take you along for the ride, because eventually it's gonna cling to you, too. It's already started. You've already lost a son because of it, and I'll never forgive myself if I let you lose anymore.
I'm contagious, and I have to cut the virus off at the head.
You know, I thought I'd cured it when I met you. You showed me what true happiness felt like when you kissed me for the first time, and I'd never felt anything like it. Even now, sitting here in my car, plotting my own death, if I trace my fingertips over my lips I can still feel that kiss.
Maybe for a while it was cured, or maybe it was just some delusion of me desperately hoping it was. Despite the bullshit we put each other through, life was still full of light. We had a beautiful baby girl and a beautiful home. But it didn't take me long to see that the light was only coming from you, and when it started to dim it was me sucking it out of you.
I don't want to be the person that steals your light. I don't want to be the person that only brings darkness. I don't want to drag you down into my pit of hell anymore. You deserve more than that. You deserve more than me.
I don't know when it is that you're reading this; if it's been two days or two years. But wherever you are in time, I need you to know that it's not your fault. I know you, and I know that your default will be criticizing yourself for things you think you could've done. The main reason I'm writing this is to absolve you from any guilt you may feel.
I don't want to be saved, Nikki. There is nothing you could've done differently. Nothing you could've said that would've made any difference. I wanted to die and I would've found a way no matter what you did. So, I need you to let that go.
I need you to do everything in your power to move on, and be the best father to those two little girls that you can be. I need you to hold our baby and tell her how much I love her. I need you to raise her to be strong and smart and independent. I need you to teach her how to be kind. I need you to help her become the force she's meant to be, because I can't. I need you to take care of her, Nikki.
And I need you to take care of yourself, too. I need you to be happy. I need you to be healthy. I need you to take all of the pain and sorrow you're feeling and turn it into something good, because I know that you can.
I need you to be okay.
But I know you will be, because you're Nikki fucking Sixx, and what can't you do?
I need you to know that I'm okay now, too.
Some people just aren't cut out to live in this world, and that's okay. But you're not one of them. You are one of the people that moves the world, and I won't keep you from that any longer. I respect you too much to do that.
Do you remember when we used to fight, you'd justify your actions by saying you just loved me too much?
I get it now. I really get it.
I just love you too damn much, baby.
Forever yours,
Ryan
Seeing your handwriting brought me to my knees. I don't think I've ever cried so hard in my life reading your words. It got to the point that Wylie almost called 911, because I couldn't breathe.
All these years I thought you didn't care enough to write me a goodbye, but you did! Baby, you did!
I didn't know a one page letter could bring me so much agony and so much relief all at once. I'm so fucking sorry. It absolutely kills me that you felt this way, but it lifts a lot of the pain I've held onto for so long to have some sort of doorway into your mind.
I wish more than anything that I could go back and soothe all of the insecurities you were feeling. I wish I could save you, baby. I wish I could bring you back. I wish I could hold you in my arms and tell you that everything would be alright. God, I wish you were here so I could tell you how much I fucking love you, but I know that I can't.
You were the light. You were the light in so many people's lives, and it fucking tears me apart that you thought you were the darkness. You were the brightest fucking light, and the daughter you created will continue to shine you onto the world. You were right, she is a force, but it's no thanks to me. It's all you, baby. She has your light.
You are the only woman I've ever loved, and the only woman I ever will love. You are still just as much a part of me as the blood that recirculates in my veins.
Thank you for writing to me. Thank you for being my wife for the best years of my life. Thank you for giving me the most perfect little girl I could've ever imagined.
I don't know what else to say, baby. I feel like I can finally breathe. I feel like I can finally live without thousand pound weights hanging off of my shoulders. I feel like I can smile, and not the fake smile I've been forcing for so long, but a real one. I will be okay, if only because you told me to be.
I will turn this into something good, like you asked. I don't know how, but I will. I promise.
No more hate. No more fuck yous. And I still love you too damn much, too, baby. Way too fucking much.
Nikki
PART TWO: A Press Conference for the Book, Letters to my Dead Wife by Nikki Sixx
January 18th, 2005
"Nikki! Nikki! Nikki!"
The room looks like a can of sardines, dozens of reporters packed into the tiny space, begging to have their questions answered for whatever paper or magazine they're writing for.
I've been in many rooms like this before, but this time feels different. Harder, and way more important than promoting a tour or an album.
This is probably one of the hardest things I've ever had to do, speaking publicly about her. It took so much out of me to read through my letters and turn them into a book for the entire world to read.
But I had to do something meaningful.
I had to take all of my pain and sorrow and turn it into something good, just like she asked me to.
And I think that this will end up doing the world some good, but that doesn't make this any easier.
My publicist, Jasmine, picks a random woman from the crowd, and her face lights up with excitement as she stands from her seat.
Here we go.
"Mr. Sixx, I imagine it was hard to read through the letters again. What made you want to make something so personally heartbreaking to you public?"
My reply gets stuck in my throat, tears already threatening to fall past my lashes.
Don't lose it, Nikki. Not here, not now.
"I wanted people to see the effects of suicide firsthand. As you'll read in the book, in my-my wife's suicide note-" I start to stutter, clearing my throat in hopes that I can cough the emotion away. "She wanted me to turn my pain into something good, and teaming up with the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline was the only way I knew how. I wanted to just be a spokesperson at first, but my letters felt more real than any two-minute infomercial I could do. All of the proceeds from the book will go to their efforts."
She nods her head through a thank you as she sits back down, seemingly satisfied. She scribbles notes in her mini-notepad, and I start to wonder if what I say will somehow get warped and distorted into something it's not.
I should've sat down with just one magazine. This is too important and too fragile to get fucked into something artificial and meaningless.
Maybe I shouldn't have done this. Maybe I should've kept the letters private. Was this a bad idea? God, please don't let this be a bad idea.
I need her to be proud of me.
"Is the death of your wife still just as painful as it was in your first letter? What have you found to help you cope with the loss?"
The question catches me off guard, partly because I'm not sure how to answer it, and partly because I was so wrapped up in my thoughts that I didn't realize Jasmine had picked another reporter.
"It's still just as painful, but it's a different type of pain than it was in the beginning." I sigh, searching for a way to say what I want to say without sounding like an idiot. "In the beginning it was a sharp, shooting pain. Now it's just a dull ache that's always there. I think it'll always be there, though, but now I don't mind it. The pain represents her and reminds me that she's always with me."
I give him a quick smile, letting him know I've finished my answer, but he still stands there expectantly.
"And what have you found to help you cope?" He repeats, my cheeks flushing with the heat of embarrassment.
"Oh. Please excuse me, my brain is a little jumbled right now." I laugh, trying to break the tension. "Honestly, my kids, my work, and just staying busy. And the letters. I still write to her."
"You still write her letters?" He asks, surprised.
"Yes." I confirm with a nod. "I write to her almost every day. It helps me to feel like I have an open line of communication to her, and it helps getting my feelings out on paper."
He finally sits down, pleased with the amount of information he got out of me.
"As a long time Mötley Crüe fan, I've watched your struggle with sobriety since the very beginning, and in the letters we see that struggle kind of come to a head. How hard was it to find your sobriety again in the wake of your wife's death?" A petite blond in the middle row stands, her voice raspy and raw.
"It was extremely hard. After my wife died, I went into a very dark place with my using. I don't explain it in detail in the letters, but I almost lost my life for a second time because of it. If it wasn't for Tommy Lee or my daughter, I wouldn't be here. He basically gave me an ultimatum- rehab or he was gonna take my daughter. He saved my life. I'll forever be indebted to him for it."
"How long do you have now?" She continues, chewing on her pen.
"Ten years. It'll be eleven in a few months." I answer bashfully, hanging my head.
"Congratulations!" She exclaims, clapping her hands.
"Thank you."
"We basically saw Wylie grow up through your letters. How is she doing now?" Another woman stands up from the crowd, her recorder flung out into the air in front of her.
"Wylie is great." I smile wide, winking at the blue-haired teenager in the back. "She still goes to the same school, and they're still amazing. She is one of the top students in her class, and I imagine she'll be valedictorian when the time comes just to throw how smart she is in my face. She still loves animals, but I think she's decided to give music a real try. She's really an amazing drummer. She actually is the one playing the drums on If I Die Tomorrow on our Red, White, and Crüe album. We plan to bring her on stage for it to do a little memorial for her mother when we tour next month."
Shit, I shouldn't have mentioned Mötley. This isn't about Mötley.
"Has she read the letters? How does she feel about the most difficult parts of her childhood being on display?" She continues, her face hard as stone.
Fuck, that's a deep question.
I should've prepared more.
"She's read them." I nod, biting into my bottom lip. "I don't think I would've had the courage to publish them if she hadn't pushed me. You see, my daughter has the biggest heart known to man, and all she wants to do is help people. She'll give you the shirt off her back, and it was really her idea to put these out for the world to read in case it could help someone struggling with the idea of suicide or the families of those it's already taken."
"You must be so proud of her." The reporter finally smiles, melting at my softness for my daughter.
"There isn't a word in the English language to convey what I feel for my daughter. She is hands down the best person I know."
I can see Wylie smile from here, my heart slowing as she throws up devil horns.
"We hear a lot about Sharise Neil in the letters. Are you still friends?"
All the reporters are starting to look the same, and even their voices are getting difficult to decipher.
"Oh, yeah." I breathe shakily. "Sharise is Wylie's aunt, we'll never not be in each other's lives. She's still a Godsend to me and my family. We spend every holiday together."
"You make it pretty clear in the letters that dating wasn't an interest of yours. What about now? Would you be open to dating in the future?" A man in a blue suit stands as the woman sits, the pace of the open interview quickening.
What a weird fucking question.
We're here to talk about my dead wife, and you wanna know if I'm fucking anyone?
"That's just not something that's ever been on my mind." I flick my wrist, shutting him down. "I feel like I would be doing a disservice to women everywhere if I were to date. As far as I'm concerned, I'm still married. My wife is the only woman I've ever loved, and I'm confident that she'll be the only one I'll ever love."
A collective awww ruptures from the crowd, making me blush.
"If your wife was here today, what would you want to say to her?" A brunette from the front interrupts, the breath leaving my lungs as her black-rimmed glasses fall to the bottom of her nose just like Ryan's did so often.
Sometimes I'll see someone out of the corner of my eye, or I'll just pass by them too quickly on the street, and for a split second I can almost swear it's her. I still see her everywhere I go, and my heart breaks all over again.
I can still smell her on my old Ratt t-shirt, and I'm not ashamed to say I buy her perfume once a year to spray on my pillows. Sometimes I'll hold one close to my chest and pretend it's her; pretend she's hugging me back.
It never did get any easier. Not really anyway, but I've made my peace with it. If the pain is all I have left of her, I'll let each wave crash over me with gratitude.
I still miss her so much that it hurts to breathe. I still wish she was here, and I still would give absolutely anything to go back in time and save her from herself and her evil thoughts. I mean, shit, I still write her letters twelve years later. I still talk to her picture on the nightstand as if she was there.
But what would I say to her if she actually was here?
I don't really know.
"Um-" I laugh awkwardly, tears pricking the back of my eyes. "That's one I'm gonna have to think on. Next question, please."
But that's not true.
I know exactly what I would tell her, and I said it in the letter I wrote to her last night.
I've let go of the hate. I'm still out of fuck yous. And I still love you too damn much, baby.
Until the day I can join you, wherever you are, I'll always love you way too damn much.
Nikki
A/N: I can't believe Sobriety is done. I don't have any words to thank you for coming on this journey with me. Thank you, thank you, thank you. Please don't be strangers! I have enjoyed your comments and your encouragement more than you could ever know. I'm gonna go cry in a corner now. ♥️