The First and the Last

 

 

 

 

 

January 28, 2013

 

 

Dear Journal,

 

This is my first time writing...it will probably be the last too. Clearly, my condition is getting worse. Isn't that why all the nurses are avoiding eye contact with me? They murmur amongst themselves, telling one another that I'm going to die soon. That I have no hope left. My doctor has also stopped coming in. He seems to have given up on me.

Can't they see that I'm suffering? All I do all day is look out the window. There's nothing I can do. No one comes to visit me. I don't have any relatives. They're all dead.

It's all the rain's fault. If it hadn't been raining so hard that day...I would have been spared of my depression. My parents wouldn't have died. Neither would have my aunts and uncles. Why did they have to take the same bus? And my parents. Why did cancer have to be in the family? Why was it passed onto me? Life if so unfair.

I'm growing weaker as the seconds tick by. I can feel it. But still, no one comes into my hospital room. 

The nurse that used to bring me my lunch is getting married soon. Why couldn't I be happy like her? While she goes out on dates, I'm stuck in this white, boring room, staring out the window. Speaking of which...it's raining again. Like the day that started everything.

Please Rain, I know my time is coming. So when I die, please wash away all this sadness. Wash away the resentment I possess. Wash away my hatred, my bitterness. Wash it all away. But most of all, wash away my existance. 

And like the fire you failed to put out that day, burn this journal entry.

Thank you. 

 

Sincerely, 

Tiffany