sjsprWriting

Lena,

I often think about how I regret it. Killing myself, I mean. It was for your own good and my own good, but I still wish I could have whispered the truth in your ear—told you what they wouldn’t, because they are too afraid to.

I made my choice, though. It was a hard one, but I made it. In their eyes I was diseased: someone to whisper about and be ashamed of. I know you wish I wasn’t your mother now: When people see you they probably think of me, instead—and you have every right to feel resentful. You’re better off without me than with me, though, and I know all too well that knowing when to let go is part of loving people. God knows you're who I loved the most.

I don’t know where you are now, though, and I hate that. I assume you’re cured—maybe you’re not. Maybe you’d realized what I had done. Heard the prayers I whispered into the ward cell’s walls each time I etched the word deeper into it. Heard it echo in the back of your head like a rising tide, heard it crash against the seashore as it broke through the wall and the sunlight warmed my fingers.

And if you did, I hope you weren’t angry. I hope you remember, instead. Remembering is part of loving, too. But if you don’t, then you are safe. Their fear can’t touch you. You’d be exactly where I left you.

I heard about a breakout the other day, though: a girl. Nothing special: brown hair, brown eyes, five feet two inches. She was with a boy, but he didn’t make it over the fence. She had run, though—with scratches on her knees and a wild look in her eyes. They ran the electricity through the fence for weeks after that. Our supplies ran dangerously low, but no one was angry. They were amazed at how a girl so small could outrun helicopters and the thousands of arms trying to hold her down. How she flew above the walls, no matter how tall they were.

I used to dream it was you. I still do, sometimes. I can’t help but hope you broke through.

I hope you find me.

No matter where you are, though: I love you.

Remember.

They cannot take it.