The Confession Letter

A Plan That Backfired

If you're reading this, I'm probably dead already. I know that you will regret my decision and hate me dearly for being so selfish, but I just couldn't. Guilt was raking at my emotions everyday until I just couldn't take it. So Mary, I know that you are smart enough to realize that I didn't write this note to tell you the obvious. ~that I'm dead~ You have a sinking suspicion that there is a reason for my death. And sweetie, there is. This is a confession letter.

I did it.

I stare across the table at the boy in front of me. I want to ask him a million questions about the letter in my hand. The boy's name is Oliver Fickle. A happy name for such a somber kid. He has an angular, sickly pale face making his big light blue eyes look out of place. He's got a mop of blond waves sitting on his head. His small frame makes his clothes hang on him as if he was made of cardboard instead of flesh and bones. If he filled out healthily, I think that he would turn out to be quite a handsome boy. "So Oliver," I say trying to prompt him to spill all the details about the letter. He continues to stare at the table. "Why did you write this letter?" I ask. His eyes flash me a stormy glare that almost makes me flinch. "I didn't expect to live so I wrote a note. Isn't that what people do when they commit suicide: leave a note?" He had a point. "What did you mean when you wrote "I did it"? What were you referring to?" I ask gently. He doesn't answer. Go figure. "Look, Oliver: I am on your side. I know that the last interrogation guys weren't very nice, but I'm different from them." Oliver's delicate hand touches the bruise the other agent left on his cheek. "There is no point in you knowing what I meant for I was clearly writing to Mary." My eyebrows knit together as I try to figure him out. Oliver tried to commit suicide a week ago, jumping off of a bridge into water. A woman in traffic saw him jump and managed to stop her car safely and catch him in the water. The woman, being a life guard performed CPR until the ambulance came and then he was sent to the hospital. Once out of recovery for a broken rib and arm, he was driven to the closest police station. It was a little dingy and the police weren't really reliable. They got angry at Oliver for not talking and landed him a hefty blow to his cheek. Then, Oliver got sent here to be interrogated by some of the top detectives in the state. Unfortunately, he still won't talk. "Who is Mary?" I ask. Oliver's hands clench together on the table. "Mary was my older sister. But then, she was brutally raped and murdered a year ago." He says. I was taken aback by his response. He has lead a such a rough life for being such a young age. I open my information folder: 12 years old. He is not NEARLY old enough for us having this discussion. I can feel my heart reaching out to him in sympathy. "So why did you write a letter to her if she was never going to read it?" I thought it was a decent question, but he glares at me with an icy stare that makes me shiver. "I have my reasons."

A week later, Oliver still hasn't said any leads to help me understand the case. We spend all day together and as a total, it's 90% just me talking to him and him ignoring me. My boss keeps telling me to yell at him, or hurt him or somehow force him to talk, but I know that won't work. I keep telling him that I'll get Oliver to talk without forcing the words out of him.

One night, I was out guarding Oliver's door, sitting in a chair reading a book under the soft light when I hear noises coming from his room.

I knock on Oliver's door. There's a muffled "Don't come in." Concerned, I open the door anyway. "Oliver what's-" I trail off staring at him. He's sitting in the corner, a butter knife from dinner is in his hand cutting his wrist. Tears are streaming down his face. "Oh Oliver no." I say, but he cuts me off. "I told you not to come in." His voice is high and terrified. I try to take a step towards him, but he tells me to stop. I sit down on the floor. "There. I won't come any closer." Oliver's shoulders shake as he cries harder and blood trickles down to his wrist and it plops to the floor. "Oliver, please talk to me. It will help you feel better I promise."