To Whom it May Concern (WIP)

To whom it may concern;
It was a little over two years ago, in the winter of 2014. I was living in Carrollton, Texas. I lived in a small two story house with my mother and my sister. My sister, Hannah, was on her way from the airport, coming home from her deployment in Iraq. My mother had been on edge, anticipating her return, as she had received several letters detailing injuries from gunshot wounds and cuts that had led to infection.
I had gone to a club with my friends; our end of the year celebration. My phone buzzed in my pocket as I danced along with the rest of the raved crowd. Omni-colored lights shone down on us and techno blared from various speakers in the room. Cheap alcohol flowed through my veins, making me feel nauseated and sick. I found way off the dance floor and to the bathrooms where it was quiet.
My vision sharpened and focused, allowing me to identify my overseer. She lowered her face down to mine, examining me. Her chestnut brown hair covered the edges of my face, and the pleasant smell of coconut shampoo came over me. Her warm and soft smile beckoned down at me, making my lips curl up at the edges. Her big brown eyes looked down into mine. “Are you awake now sleepy?” Her quiet, soothing voice filled my ears, like a sweet lullaby. I tilted my head up ever so slightly, then back down. “Good. I want to show you something.” A grumble escaped my throat, letting her know that I was very comfy where I was, and that I didn’t want to go anywhere. “Oh, don’t give me that.” A hint of playfulness. “Aren’t you at least a little curious as to what I want to show you?” I couldn’t deny that she had piqued my curiosity just a tad bit, so I nodded my head, the pillow scratching against my skull as I did. “Get up, I think you’re going to love this.”
“Here it is.” She had left to go get something from one of the other rooms. I sat up on the couch, a wave of sleepiness washing over me. She came back, holding out a small box made of rich oak wood. She sat it down on the glass coffee table in front of me. The wood was aged and a little worn, small indents and rings covered it on all sides. Its beauty was only amplified by the light coming from the fireplace. I drew my head nearer, giving its detail a closer inspection. On the bottom right, it had cursive initials “S.T.” carved into the wood. I asked if it was something of hers that father had kept for her. She sat down on the couch, simply smiled, and opened the box.
Inside were pictures of her when she was younger. Years of memories filled the box. “You know, I don’t really have many memories of before I met you.” She looked at me and I could see the pain in her eyes. “When I was thirteen, my parents had taken me on a road trip up north. We were on the highway, going seventy-five miles per hour. The car in front of us slammed on their brakes and my dad could do nothing but smash into the back of them. I was sitting in the back, and my mother was in the front. She got launched out of the windshield. The car behind us also slammed into us, and the one after that, and after that too. It became a giant car pile. The moment my mother hit the ground about twenty feet in front of us, her neck snapped and she died instant. Me and my dad were lucky and our seatbelts held tight. The driver side airbag activated quickly and saved my dad without too much injury. The car directly behind us had crushed the back of ours, and pushed everything forward. I was forced into the back of the front passenger seat and I hit my head hard enough that my skull cracked; I blacked out immediately. When I woke up, fourteen months had passed since the accident. I can still remember how this man cried as he squeezed my hand and rejoiced after I opened my eyes for the first time. I had no idea who he was, or even, who I was. The trauma from the crash had caused amnesia and I had lost all my memories.” She paused for a second, looking at me, wearing a smile to conceal her true feelings. I gently grabbed her hand to remind her of the present. Her face drifted back down to the box.
“When I asked him ‘Who are you?’, He pulled back, looking at me with the most pained expression. Doctors rushed into the room and tried to explain what had happened without scaring me too much.” Her face took on a more serious expression. “My mother had died in the crash, I was in a coma that was predicted that I would not wake up from, and my dad had sold the house and everything we owned to pay the medical bills to keep me alive; hoping that I would wake up some day. The hospital told him time after time that it was unlikely that I would come back, but he wouldn’t believe them. It took eight months before I could properly walk again, and another six before I would be able to leave the hospital and join normal society again.
“When I came back to school, I was the new girl again. Everyone I had known had moved or gone to high school.” The face she made was heartbreaking, the kind that twists the heart and makes you want to cry out. “Everyone one had heard of the new girl, the one with the faint but ugly scars on her face. The one that had survived a horrible car crash that killed dozens. The one without memories. Everyone was careful around me; not trying to say anything that might hurt me or make me upset. A few were curious, asking me about what happened, probing me for information. I was treated like an alien by everyone around me.” I could see her eyes dampening, tears about to fall. I squeezed her hand hard for a few seconds, then softened up. “Thank you, I’ll continue. Over time, people stopped asking, things settled down a little bit. Still none dared to approach me or try to befriend me. I developed depression. The colour in my days had left, as well as my appetite and my motivation. My dad never notices a change in me because he was always working or at the bar; drinking away his owns problems.”
“It was the day before our school’s field trip to the zoo. I was so done with everything, it just felt so meaningless. I took a bedsheet and curled it up into a rope. I tied the sheet around my fan and made a noose. I stepped up on my chair, put it around my neck, and tried to kick the chair out from under me. The moment the chair fell out from under me, I dropped and I thought it was finally over; I could finally have my peace. The fan decided it didn’t want to help me, and promptly fell out of the ceiling. I fell to the floor and the fan with me. It crashed down beside me as I crumpled down to the floor. I was dazed, but the moment I realized I had failed, I curled up and sobbed the night away.” Tears streamed down her face.
“The next day was miserable. I came to school and tried my best to hide what bruising my attempt had left. People noticed, talked amongst themselves, but said nothing to me. We boarded the bus and I heard the girls behind me having a conversation. I tried to tune it out but the words ‘new boy’ caught my attention. They began describing him, short, curly hair, tall, smart, and cute. They pointed to the front of the bus at someone. I didn’t really know anyone due to what happened to me, so I was lost for a second, but then I recognized some dark curls, ones no one else had. The person next to him pointed it out that we were staring, and he turned around.” This story was starting to sound a little familiar… “That boy was you. You looked at me and smiled; I turned away because I thought you were one of those types that would ask questions because you were new.”
“The person next to you tried to deter you as you stood up and began walking over to me. You sat down and introduced yourself to me. I honestly had no idea what to do so I just said hi. You began telling me about yourself. It was nice because no one had done that. You felt like the first friend I had. You looked at me and saw my scars. You paused for a moment then you rolled up your sleeves and said, ‘Me too.’” Memories of that day flooded back in a rush. I could see her delicate past self, sitting there, staring at me. “All over your arms were scars, some thick and clear, some thinner and almost unnoticeable. I felt a sense of sorrow and surprise at the same time. There was someone else who might be able to understand. Over weeks we got to know each other, becoming best friends. I could tell that others thought I was your clingy girlfriend, because I always hung around you. You were the only friend I knew, what else was I supposed to do?” She begun to trail off, her gaze off into a distant nowhere. I couldn’t stand just sitting there, so I grabbed her wrist and pulled her over.
She fell into me with a yelp and I wrapped my arms around her, connecting at the back. The shock wore off and she relaxed in my arms. Together we sat there, for what felt like both an extremely long time, and not long enough. I relaxed my grip but still she stayed close. Her arms wrapped around my torso and kept me in place. The rest of the night was spent in each other’s arms on the couch, falling asleep.
I stumbled into the dimly lit room and fell to my knees. I couldn’t take it anymore. This had all been way too fucking much for me. I pushed myself back into a corner and pulled myself into a ball. Tears welled up in my eyes behind a massive dam and threatened to drown me. It came out it staggered whimpers first, a cry escaping my mouth. Finally, it cracked. My body shook as my face became wet with my emotions materialized. It came not in waves of progressive cries, but all at once. Every single emotion came out of me at once. The anguish of her death, the rage of the idea that I could have stopped it, and the sorrow; the sorrow that I was alone again, my one true solace erased.
When the tears stopped, I just sat there, thinking. I wanted it to end. This nightmare had taken my soul and run in through a series of pulverizes; any hope of something better destroyed.
I looked up from my knees. The room was small, lit only by a lamp that was on a desk against the wall. A foul smell permeated from the other side of the room. A decayed male body lay limp in the wooden chair beside a desk. In his hand, a small pistol gleamed from the light of the lamp. I got up from my corner and wandered over. I knelt next to him and pried the gun from his bony fingers.

To Whom it May Concern:
An Original Story, I think.:

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