Disoriented

Chapter 4: Who she could've become.

The note came through the mail a few days after I had found out. While I was dealing with my thoughts and depression from losing my best friend, it came. It wasn’t just a note, it was a box, it had a note attached. I took the note off first delicately, and my name was imprinted on it in handwriting that I recognized, her handwriting. As I carefully lifted the note off the box to read possibly the last words she’d ever write, to me, or to my knowledge, anyone. I opened the box, tears welled up in my eyes as I pulled the dangling circle out of the tiny box. It was her bracelet, the name of the girl I loved swinging in front of my eyes, the Rainbow charm I bought her, calling out for me to touch it, front and center, in between all the other charms I had bought her. I weeped that day, I cried after feeling devoid for the longest time, I felt like my emotions were ripped out of my chest. But now, after seeing the bracelet and the charms I got her, I felt like they were stabbed back into my heart, like I could finally let everything out that needed to be out. The note was a puzzle, something simple. The decoder was in the note. I decoded it, which made me cry more reading the actual note. It’s like she knew I was going to tell her story to the world in puzzle form. I let the tears fall over the brisk edges of the paper, rolling down the side, the paper crumbling in my hand as the salty droplets sink into the ink imprinted onto paper; the only part left unharmed, where her name was gently written, as if the pen was running out of ink, in perfect cursive letters, “Your disoriented friend, Psyche Hastings”.

I ripped the paper up, my vision flashing red, my tears filled with the emotions I had held in since it happened, the salt dragging out the monster I felt like inside, my anger showing like a rabid dog, my emotions running wild, there was no more emptiness, no more void in my heart or my stomach; the voids that had been there were replaced, the emotions filled the voided areas of my body, and in doing so, made it seemingly impossible to calm down. It happened so quickly that I didn’t know what I was doing, from sadness, to absolute anger in myself and her, to an unexpected panic attack that was unpredictable. I rushed to my desk feeling and hearing my heartbeat with every step of my feet, with every raging second I felt the blood rush from my brain, I grabbed my pen, my paper, and I began writing a story, the story of who she was, who she would’ve become, no, could’ve became. You’re reading the story, you’re reading these words, these cries for help, for someone to reach out and save her, but she’s already gone. I cry and scream for her to come back, but it’s physically impossible to get the girl that I let go back, even if she could come back.