CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
Word Count: 870
Write two letters: One to someone you hurt and the other to someone who hurt you.
I am sorry for leaving you alone that day. No matter how many times I replay it in my head, no matter how many hours I have spent looking at the case files, the autopsy reports, the evidence bags sealed and locked away in storage, I never feel any better, about your death, your leaving. I’m sorry for leaving you that day, for not giving up work and just lying in bed with you so we could look at the ceiling together. I’m not blaming you, but I’m sorry that I lost all the ability to be happy, that you had given back to me, by way of your immense kindness and love. I’m sorry that you were hurt so badly, injured and violated so horrifically, that you die, not quickly, and not without much pain. I’m sorry that your blood spilt unnecessarily, and that the bastard who did this didn’t threaten me when I oversaw his arrest. I could have shot him if he had gone far enough, but, perhaps, it’s better that he didn’t, because then it would be I who would be in more trouble than I already was for being on the case of your murder. I’m sorry that I wasn’t there for you on that day, I’m sorry that I could protect you, and I’m sorry, so blessedly sorry that we weren’t able to live out the rest of our lives together, and retire rich and on top of our own castle. I’m sorry that I hurt you by letting you die, and I’m sorry, so sorry, that I wasn’t there, that I wasn’t there and could stop your pain by stopping him from hurting you first. I’m sorry that your life didn’t end naturally, with me by your side, and I’m sorry that I never got to say goodbye. I’m sorry that we only he such a short time together, as lovers, as husband and wife, when we should have had years, and decades, and lifetimes spent by each other’s side. I’m sorry that you die the way you did, and that I couldn’t protect you. I carry the pain I do now, because I have to remember you. I can’t just remember the happiness, and not remember the pain, because that would make your death inconsequential and lacking in nobleness.
I love you Michelle. I will love you always and forever. I always have, and I always will, because you made me happy, you completed me, and it was more than nice, it was lovely, and bright.
Yours, Conrad Ecklie.
While I will never show it, it does hurt because you are gone from my life. While I despise being this, sappy, for want of a better word, I know, you wouldn’t mind, and so, I am honest in what I say. This has no pretence involved, no ulterior motive. Every day that passed now, it hurts, just like it did before I knew you, but now, doubly as strong. I can’t help but imagine that you would be upset because of this, and, I’m sorry for that, even though, you are, well, dead, and your emotions are inconsequential to me now, seeing as you can’t technically feel them anymore.
Since your death, the nightmares have been stronger, and I find myself awake more often, pacing around the house and reading the sports section of the newspaper at night. I don’t find it particularly entertaining. It is indescribable, almost, though, the pain, that I feel now. The way it has managed to bore down to my very core and centre, the way it eats away at me, and leaves me doubting for the merest of milliseconds, of my own sanity and strength of mind and will. I know I am strong, but, Michelle, in your absence, I am hurting, I am in pain, and while not physical, and totally mental, these feelings make me wonder, when I am half asleep and wracked with terrible, sluggish thoughts, whether I can face the next day or not. Of course I can, but, for those brief fractions of a second, I do wonder, sometimes, just sometimes, about such things.
In your death, you hurt me and cause me pain, and in your life, you made me happy, and removed most of my previous pain. You allowed me to be happy again, when you loved me, and touched me, hugged and kissed me. When I surprised you, buying you flowers or jumping out of a cupboard, you were always surprised, you always showed joy in your eyes. I miss your surprised face, your warmth, your everlasting happiness, your joy and unbridled passion for your life and for your job and the people you helped. It hurts, Michelle, it always does, and it always will, and always has, and nothing can fix it. I will hurt always, and that makes me the hurt, the pain, the loss, the regret and remorse, even worse, until they all begin to boil and bubble and turn into anger, rage, coldness and a distinct lack of emotions. It hurts, Michelle, it hurts, and I can not stop it. I, am, so, sorry.
I love you.
Yours, Conrad Ecklie.