Letter One
Hey. I know it's been nearly three years since we spoke, and that's my fault, to be honest. I don't even know if you want to talk to me. You'll probably just throw this in the trash, at least after you read it. How are you doing in Mexico? I hope everything's okay. How I wish I could be there with you...
I wasn't supposed to be there, you know. But I and everyone else knows what I've done, and it's the least I deserve. It's funny, really, how ironic this whole situation turned out. I can't believe I'm actually explaining this to you, but you deserve to know. You always deserved to know. It started a while ago. Back when I used to live in Gotham. You remember that place, don't you? You'd be lucky if you didn't. The memory is engraved in my brain.
Ah, I don't know how to explain all of this to you... You're probably very worried about me, though I doubt it after how I was. You don't have to worry, I'm doing fine. I'm going to tell you what happened to me.
After you left for Mexico, I really wasn't the same. I felt like I had a missing piece that was supposed to be filled but I didn't know how. I'm not telling you this to guilt trip you, I'm telling you because it was an important part of what happened to me.
Anyways, I didn't feel right at the time. Things weren't okay at home. Dad was very abusive and his drinking problem had gotten worse. I was receiving more and more beatings. I still remember how much they hurt, how they would never heal. I was at the point of falling apart, to say the least.
I know this is probably old news for you, but I made a decision that I don't know if I should have or not. One day, Dad and I were having another argument again. I don't remember what it was about, but I do remember that he was getting ready to beat me again and I had grabbed a kitchen knife to defend myself. He was taunting me, telling me horrible things I still think about, and I couldn't take it anymore.
You're probably disappointed in me right now. "What have you done, Alex?" You're probably asking. I did the inevitable, sad to say.
Dad didn't know what happened at first. He looked down and saw the blade was inside his stomach, the creases in his aging face showing how distraught he became. He was frozen for a moment, then he brought his hands to his belly and there was blood on his fingertips.
I didn't want to do it, but I had to. I had to end this cycle one way or another. I just didn't count on it being this way. Sometimes I wonder how my life would've turned out if I had just put down the knife, other times I want to go back in time and do it again.
Nevertheless, I was horrified by what I did. I scrambled for the phone and called 9-1-1. I couldn't speak properly and the operator had told me to calm down. As much as I wanted to shout I couldn't, I did. I explained to him what I did and he told me they were going to send a patrol car over.
"The police?" I had asked. He confirmed that it was, in fact, a police car.
I felt the blood drain from my face. I couldn't go to prison! A boy like me couldn't handle a place like that. I was freaking out even more now. The police were coming and my dad's deceased body was bleeding all over the floor. I had to do something quick, so I decided to run away. I know, I know, why would I call the police and then run away? I don't know, I was scared. Maybe I wanted them to take Dad and bury him because I just don't have enough respect for him to do it myself.
I don't have enough time to finish this letter, so I'm going to end it here. I'll write the rest in another letter when I can, assuming you even get this one.
Yours truly,
Andrew
