Here we go. The letter I want to write but never can. The ultimate fuck you to be kept for the record as long as we both shall live and then some. We'll skip the formalities and the "How have you been?"s if that's alright with you. I'm sure it is. Lord knows, you wouldn't want to hurt me or anything. I hope you can understand that, despite it being about five months, I'm still hurt. But don't think you're news. Don't mistake this letter as we still talk about you. Don't think you are anything more than a sledgehammer that shattered seven years of good memories.

Shall we start at the beginning or the end? Let's be spontaneous. Let's start at the end. That accurately portrays it, don't you think? Now, let's imagine you're in a slumber. Not quite a deep slumber, but the REM is just coming into the picture, you're melded to your bed, drool is trickling. Good right? Nice, wonderful picture. And your phone rings. Now, you don't answer your phone often but it's your grandfather which is odd. You pick up the phone, expecting to hear some old person eccentricities like that he's outside with seven pounds of fruit and you need to unlock the door or something like that. But, in your almost asleep stupor, you make out the words "Call the police" and "So-and-so is choking your aunt." So, let's let that simmer. How would you feel? What is your first thought? What would you do? Probably what I did, which was jump up and tell someone.

With the 'rents dispatched, what you you do now? Would  you go about your day? I sure as hell didn't. I paced and shook and murmured like a crazy person until I decided I couldn't take it, took something, and went to sleep. Fast forward 2-4 hours. Your kids are at our house. Besides the little one, they're shaken. Now I know they aren't all yours but after seven years, you kinda get used to saying it. Where was I? Ah yes, the part where my room was monopolized. My aunt, who you jut tried to kill, had to lay down. My brother's bed is too small, my parents like their space, and my room is fresh for the taken. You can call me selfish and I can call you an attempted murderer, so let's not call

names. Especially since I know more about you than you realize.

In case you were wondering, things are fine with them. They live far far away and do school and have moved on. Five months. Isn't that a record? Five months and they forget seven years. I'm sure they still think you you. Not in the loving memorial way but in the nightmare. The way that gives you goosebumps and visible chills when you think of it. That spontaneous way that makes you ache and look over your shoulder. And the worst part (for you anyway) is that this is your fault. Do you think of that wherever you live? Do you cringe at the thought of it? Do you cry about it? I bet you do.

how dare you come into my thoughts again, you insignificant jerk? You ruined them. Even though the facade is fine, the reality is that you cracked deep down below. That will never be fixed. I hope you think of it every day. I hope it eats you up inside. And in conclusion, eat a bag of shit. Bye! :)