2016
I’m probably going to die tonight.
I grip the pen in my trembling hand so hard its plastic shell is starting to splinter and crack under the force. The tip has hovered over my sheet of paper so many times while I’ve tried to think of the best way to phrase what I want to say. How I’m going to be able to get all this across in so few words and so little time.
I haven’t got long to write this letter. It’s not the first I’ve written. Writing letters has been my way of staying sane, my way of holding onto a tiny shred of hope. Some to my Mum. Some to my sister. Some to myself. None will ever be sent. They’ll live under the floorboard, where I keep them safe, hidden, and probably never see the light of day. But it gets the words out of my head, which is the main thing.
To be honest, I should probably be doing something else with my final hours. I’m sure most people spend their last day on Earth surrounded by loved ones, reminiscing about the good old days, flicking through family photo albums or scrolling through camera rolls.
Not me.
I don’t think I’ve ever held a responsibility quite like this one. I’ve never done anything so important in all my life. My life that’s about to be cut short.
Of course, I might not die tonight. There are two other options. A happily ever after, or a fate much, much worse than death. I’m not scared to die but I’m terrified of the potential alternative. And I’m so tired of being terrified.
Swallowing all that fear down, I press the nib of the pen to the page and start to write. Whether I die tonight or not, this letter will be my legacy. Potentially someone’s saviour.
My final act of rebellion.