Nothing but Goodbye

The Story

Dear Best Friend,

This is the start of the letter yet it already feels really weird, I’ve never written you a letter before have I?

Remember when I didn’t let you come to my house for a visit last week? It wasn’t because my parents didn’t allow visitors, but because… My mother died. I was pondering whether to tell you about it. She died just three days ago. It’s not actually because of that, but more of me not wanting you to see what a miserable and pathetic state I’m in.

I didn’t want to hide anything from you; neither did I want you to worry about me. I really didn’t know if I should just keep it from you. Should I? Should I not? I felt that if I didn’t tell you I wouldn’t be honest with you. And being honest was part of us being friends. Yet at the same time I was scared you would freak out and panic and worry about me. These two questions resounded in my head with my own voice.

‘Why didn’t I cry over my mother’s death’, you might ask. Since we’re not face to face I might as well tell you about it. Child abuse. That’s why I was always so quiet in school. I no longer trusted anyone – no one but myself.

I’m glad I can call you my friend actually. Friend. I still remember the first day at school, when you approached me. I had my head down and it was you who gave me the courage to raise it up again. You didn’t know what I went through every day. It was pure torture.

My mother would go gambling every day. I can call her a gambling addict, can’t I? Each time she lost money for the day, she would put on a grumpy face and stomp home as if the whole world owed her something. When she reached home, she would rant about how she lost money and how unfair it was. Most of the times, she would vent her anger on me.

She called me a brat. She called me a bane. She called me a nuisance.

I would never forget the whipping of the cane on to my skin. The slashing came down on my skin like a waterfall. It felt like someone stabbing you with a knife and digging into your open wounds. Yes, the cane whips at the same spot all the time. Skin burst open with the pinkish red flesh showing, the cane would pounce at it still, ripping and killing every skin cell around the hole in my skin. Those were the worst days in my life.

My mother always came back earlier than my father, without fail. I wonder why. My father would go to the bar down the next lane for drinks, for hours and hours. Every time he was done he would come back around midnight, almost each time drunk, and with no warning, hit me like I was just a toy for him to put his crazy drunk attitude on.

Slaps and kicks and punches, he treated me nothing like a human. I never know what he’s thinking. Drunken people, what is on their minds?

I would be sleeping, glad to be rid of the pain my mother had given me, but I knew it wouldn’t be the end. Delighted to get rest, my father would come back and hit me for no reason. This usually lasted around half an hour the maximum. Each minute felt like a thousand years. Tell me, the pain of someone thrusting his fists into your new wounds created just hours ago. I might have had plasters protecting them but the wounds seem to split under the plasters. He pulled no punches. One after another, it was worse than the hell my mother gave me.

I never wanted to go back home. I hated it. But I had to be back before my mother, or what I get would be two times worse.

I really hate my life. I hate how I have such parents. I hate how my mother didn’t abort me back then. I hate why I even exist.

Without my mother around, my father seems to have taken on the double-job of caning and beating me. What’s worse is that he canes and punches and kicks repeatedly. A cane slapped down on my arms and legs. A punch directed at my stomach. A kick slammed on my back. Multiple wounds could be found on my body and bruises stained my slightly tanned skin.

I would try to run. To run away from him, but run where? He would never fail to grab random small bunches of my messy hair and pull me back. Each time I tried to run, he would pull or drag me back. Then he would yell some obscenities at me at hit me twice as hard as he already would.

I hate him. I hate him. I hate him.

I would curse him in my head, wishing he would drop dead and never lay a finger on me again. Should I ever dare to voice such an opinion out, I would rather die.

Sometimes even school is horrible. I sleep in class, the teachers yell at me. I hardly have any sleep at home. With that burning pain scorching inches of my body, there was no way I could fall asleep. It burned. It just burned and burned. The pain was unbearable but I couldn’t scream. Did I mention how my parents would yell at me for making a ruckus? Never could I imagine both of them coming on at me together. The agony would be ten times what I’m going through right now. The most I could do was to cry silently with only occasional soft whimpers.

I don’t do my homework; I get marked down for detention. There was no way I could do my work after a beating by each of my parents. And I live miles away from school. I take hours to get back home each day, and I can never have a good night’s sleep with canings and beatings. I don’t even have time to sleep properly, how would I have the time to even do any work assigned for the day? How my life is hell, tell me tell me.

I just realized how long this was getting. Oops. Well, I shall end off by saying that I’m glad I met you. And you are the person who saved me from death these two years. Wow, two years. We’ve been friends for two years. It’s really a surprise actually. It felt like I just met you yesterday. You pulled me back from the arms of death, thank you. You were like an inspiration, a motivation to carry on with my life.

“Smile. C’mon, give a smile. Don’t put your head down. If the world’s going to turn with all these hidden faces, what’s Earth?”

I looked up then, to see your bright cheerful smile shining at me. I returned a small, just a slight smile. That was when you introduced yourself to me. Carrie. Your name was Carrie.

Carrie, the girl who asked me to smile.

Carrie, the girl who told me my life was worth something.

Carrie, the girl who gave me the strength to go on.

This letter is written for the girl who is my best friend.

Carrie, this is for you. By the time you read this, I would be in some place you would never find me. Maybe we will meet again, but that would be many years later, or maybe we won’t even meet again. I think my journey ends here. I shouldn’t exist anymore. Don’t bother trying to find me too, because I would have been long gone.

One last thing, if I could choose, I would like you to be my best friend again in my next life.

Thank you so much for everything, Carrie. Thank you.

And lastly,

Goodbye.

Signed with Loads of Best friend Love,

Danna