I’m writing this to you because it’s been a exactly a year since you passed away. The therapist I’ve been seeing, Mr. Thorton, thinks that this is a good way to deal with my grief. So now, you’re getting one of these every single week. Are you able to read these up in heaven? Assuming there is a heaven; no one knows where you go after life. The ancient Egyptians believed that your soul was weighed against a feather, to see it you were good or bad, the Greeks believed that you crossed the river Styx, and ended up in the fields of asphodel, the fields of punishment, or Elysium. Any one of these could be right. I wish you could tell me which one is. Are you even able to read these letters I’m sending you? I don’t know, but I’m going to keep writing them to you.
Sometimes I feel like there’s a whirlwind inside me. It keeps spinning me around, unable to let go, but it’s a whirlwind of pain. Everything that’s happened is swirling inside me. Sometimes I feel like I need to let it out somehow, to dull the pain inside, to feel the crimson liquid seep down my arms, but I never do. I feel as though it would betray you. If you were here, you would cry and tell me that you loved me too much for me to do that. So I don’t.