Who's the winner now?

Trigger warning sensitive content: mental health, substance abuse, suicide and self harm.

She found the envelope wedged between the back of the bed board and the wall. Odd place for an envelope but she figured she was a different person back then. It was a bit damp and smelt pretty strong but that made perfect sense considering the bottle of tequila she’d thrown at the wall five minutes earlier.

The writing was a bit smudged, so she held it closer to her brown squinting eyes. Purple words running down the paper. She’d never use a pen that obnoxious. Blue if she had to, red for underlying or writing add-ons when she was editing, and black for everything else. Her fingertip traced the letters. The looping f. The flicked dot above the eye. Hell, even the way the exclamation mark looked kind of like it was angry at you. All unmistakeably her own handwriting. It read ‘Don’t forget to open me stupid!’ with a now lopsided smiley face drawn afterwards, one eye lazily winking at her. It almost looked obscene through the tears running down her face. She dropped it to floor and picked up the letter from where she’d set it down timidly on her pillow. One leg tucked beneath her on her bed, she started to read once again.

20 minutes later, she was sat at her uncluttered desk in the living room. Uncluttered, that is, because she’d swept all of the notepads, coffee cups, unread scripts and everything else onto the hardwood floor. Bare feet in cold decaf, she placed a piece of paper in front of her, and began to write.

Dear me

To the girl currently playing me

Dear Alisha,

According to some batshit letter I just found behind my bed, when I wake up tomorrow it won’t be as me. At least, not the me that I am now. Honestly, the writing was a bit all over the place (trust me when I say I could write NOTES), but this other girl, this other me, she says that I don’t exist. I’m just an experiment. Some goddamn lines in a science paper. She took some developmental pill (I would never) that would change her personality overnight. She actually sat down at a desk in some lab and ticked boxes for what she wanted. 

She wrote down what she’d picked and I’ll be damned if it doesn’t sound exactly like me. Workaholic. Check. Detail-oriented. Check. Solitary. Alright so I haven’t left my apartment this weekend. Self-involved. I’ll admit that one hurt. Still, could have been a mean joke by a shrink I forgot to send my new bank details. But the more I thought about it, the scarier it got. And by scary I mean true. My whole world feels fuzzy, like my head’s covered in those shitty fake spiderwebs you buy at Halloween. I remember before. If you asked for a full run through of what I did last week I’d tell you that I spent most of the week binging Netflix, eating greasy takeout food and putting off work. But it sounds wrong. Definitely not how I’d spend a week with a deadline on Monday. 

And that’s the fucking joke. She did this because of a deadline. Some stupid script that needed editing. She needed to focus, but she couldn’t, so she made me instead. I’m sat here at my her desk with the script and notes on the table by the front door because of course I finished it hours ago. I want to burn it. I want to hurt her. 

When I read the sorry explanation she wrote, I threw a bottle of half-empty tequila at the wall. I hope it was bloody expensive. I picked a piece of glass off the wet carpet and stood in front of the mirror, staring at myself. Willing myself to do it. But what would be the point if she couldn’t see it. Couldn’t see my smiling face drawing the sharp edge across her smooth pale skin.

Guess it’s fair to say I’m pretty fucking angry. I’m a lie. A petty reflection of the real thing. She wasn’t sure what would happen, hence the letter. Said in case she couldn’t remember, could I write another back to her, please and thank you. Wouldn’t want the scientists to lose out on valuable data. I almost feel sorry for her. She must be a real mess. Couldn’t even pick up the pieces of her life to edit a fairly mediocre script. She has a smattering of acne across her chest and her lungs strained for air when I pulled out her bed. Her phone only buzzed once the entire weekend and it was a freaking banking notification reminding her that she’s in her overdraft. I almost feel sorry for her. Almost.

So here I am, writing this godforsaken letter for her. For you, really. Look at that. For a minute there I forgot that I’m talking to you right now. How does it make you feel, hearing all this? When you wake up tomorrow and I’m gone, will I be a fleeting memory or will I linger on. Will you see me in the mirror as you brush your teeth, feel my hands as you pull on your clothes, hear my voice as you say good morning to the work friends who don’t even remember your name. I hope you do. 

Or maybe I won’t go to sleep at all tonight. I’ll pull on the sparkly dress buried at the back of your closet and spend the night in whichever seedy club I find first, solitary my ass. I’ll take upper after upper, drown myself in drinks and throw myself into the river when I feel my eyes start to close. How long do you think someone can stay awake till they lose it? When I finally go, will the crazy stay behind with you? 

So much fun, sitting here figuring out how to get back at you, and yet, in the end, who wins? 

Sorry about that; had to answer the phone. Turns out you’re quite the popular girl after all. You’ll never guess who it was. He was ever so sweet on the phone; I reckon he might have a little crush on you. And so eager too. Said he could have the pills dropped round tonight. It’s not even out of his way. I’m ever so glad you signed that continuation of trial waiver. At least you did one useful thing.  Maybe I’ll see you around sometime in the future.

Until then, thanks for the body bitch.