Death is My BFF Rewritten (Book 1 of the Rewritten Death Chronicles)

Chapter 11: Malphas

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P.S- This chapter is doing the wierd italics/bold thing it did last time.

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            To: Faithwilliams@gmail.com

            From: Davidstar@verison.net

            Subject: I'm Sorry

            Faith,

            I guess I'll just cut to the chase. I'm still worried about you, and I know I'm not being treated fairly. You're ignoring my calls and my texts, and I know it's because of the whole therapy situation. Or maybe you're mad at me because your mother asked for a signed picture of me before I left the hospital and squeezed my ass? I guess that is pretty embarrassing...

            Just kidding.

            Well, it did happen, but you hopefully know what I mean...

            Listen, your mother is a wonderful woman. I don't mean that in a creepy way. She cares about you so much. She did the right thing, telling me about your panic attacks when you were younger, and how your dad was recently laid off from work. I understand that you're mad at me because I know all of that. I get it, I really do, but I was right there, sitting beside you in that hospital room until your parents came in.  I saw how pale and anxious they got when you started to complain of chest pains, when the nurse started running tests on you. I felt obligated to help your family as much as I could. I don't think I've ever sweat as much as I was sweating when the doctor was asking you about your symptoms. Didn't help that he looked like Albert Einstein on crack, if you ask me. Plus, that squeak of his pen as he wrote was literally driving me insane...

            Anyways, the point is, I offered to help pay for your therapy because I care about you, not because I feel bad for you, or because you're a charity to me. You're not a charity to me, Faith, and you never will be. I really care about you, and I wish you would forgive me.

            Call me and let me know you're  alright.

            Yours,

            David

            It was 24 hours after I had left the hospital, and I still hadn't called him or texted him. What was wrong with me, you ask? Why wouldn't I respond to a handsome, caring man who was obviously a perfect gentleman? Whose jaw could cut diamonds, and whose physique could make a woman pregnant, just by looking at it?

             The answer is, I was afraid. I was afraid to let him in, to forgive him once again in the span of one week. Was this what our relationship would be like? One of us constantly needing forgiveness? Death trying to kill us? My mom squeezing David's butt?

            I needed severe help.

            White leather seats. Stacks of magazines. Air fresheners once in a while puffing a scent into the room that made me want to sneeze. A few plants. Mellow paintings of rivers and sceneries.

            Therapy.

            It had already come to this.

            I was going to make progress. The clowns, the scarecrow, the drowning, the teasing and manipulation, maybe I could forget it as if it never happened. Maybe, he would never bother me again. It had all been a game from the beginning. Some sort of sick, twisted game that I never wanted to be a part of, and maybe, just maybe, Death had gotten bored of me.