I read it to the very end, denying the fact that it was too late. I didn’t want to be there and neither did them. Yet I had reached this destination three days earlier, hopelessly hoping he would read it himself.

My mom wished me a happy birthday and showed me the way out. I hadn’t seen my mom since the beginning of the holidays and she had only spoken to me on the phone a week earlier to let me know that the second father figure in my life was dying of a terminal liver cancer. She looked at me from head to toe, noticing my body floating in my dress. On the way to the hospital, she tried to provide coherent answers to my haunting questions. Endoscopical Cirrhosistic what? But deep down, I knew very well what the answers to my questions were; I merely hoped for different ones. We climbed the stairs up to his room, but I didn’t go in right away as I had promised myself I wouldn’t cry in front of him. So I took a breath and only opened the door when my mom’s eyes told me I could do it. I opened door and pretended I had just come back from a fantastic, stress-relieving holiday at the beach. My throat vibrated as I realized that the good-looking man he once was, was now solely made of grey skin and brittle bones. However, that day he was emotionally and mentally present. In fact, he was angry. He hadn’t eaten, drunk, nor walked in two weeks and he was angry! Until the nurse came in and rolled him out to an endoscopy, he was on the front line of the battle. Yet, the nurse came back to my mom and I confirming what we already knew and he slowly retreated to the darkness of the trenches. I had witnessed tears coming out of my mom’s eyes before, but this was different. Tears of rage fired out of her eyes - the nurse had declared the upcoming end of this battle. She only gave him a few nights.

Time seemed to slow down throughout the next day. All three of us lived in our own nightmare, forgetting about aspects of our lives that may seem essential to us on a daily basis. We only cared about the tangible present. However, time wasn’t slowing down the arrival of what we subconsciously denied. The oxygen mask had now become indispensable and the morphine was never sufficient to relieve the pain he had learnt to hide. We spent the day altogether until the rest of the world had agreed that something as unreliable as time could dictate when we had to leave him alone. And so, we left to our neighboring hotel once ‘visiting hours’ were over.  Just outside his room, I took my mother’s hand and let the tears finally rush out after the day’s restraining efforts. I was fully aware that time only appeared to be slowing down. The next morning, we woke up to the nurse’s call and arrived to his floor panting within the following minutes. I remember going to the bathroom before entering the room, although I didn’t need to use the bathroom. Perhaps I wanted my mom to have her last minutes with the love of her life alone? Or maybe I didn’t want to see what I was about to see. I entered to capture an image that will forever be engraved in my mind. I have never described it to anyone, and I don’t think I ever will. There, I took out the letter I had sealed on the train. I had managed to assemble five years of friendship, laughter, education, rage, admiration, and regret into five meaningless sheets of paper. Not knowing whether his heart was still beating, I read it out loud to the very end.

Eight months later, I now realize that the nightmare really started as I read the last words of my letter. My mother's and my own sadness make up the trailer of this horror movie. There is a constant knot in my stomach, which of course people say would be alleviated if I spoke more about it. But how can I express myself when my mind constantly spins and throws emotions, ideas, conclusions, and questions around? In fact, my mind only settles when both my physical and mental concentration are fully required. Yet, this initiates a vicious cycle as I abuse of activities that require this concentration. I spend hours at the stables, past the light of day, until I become physically exhausted. And there, the emotions, ideas, conclusions, and questions jump about again. This also sparks a state in my head where the darkness of my situation outshines all aspects of my life. Not knowing whom to blame, I become angry with the world itself.

I’m angry with the world
for having made lovers of god become haters of life who massacre the innocent.
for having encouraged men to undress ladies for their own pleasure regardless of consent.
for having created this sick image of a beautiful girl, which has become my body shape although it is reflected to my eyes otherwise.
for having innovated substances that spark the addiction of broken souls.
for having privileged the lives of some and not others.
for allowing repulsive dirty men get away with touching and scaring innocent children.

I’m angry because all of these wrongs have somehow played their cards upon my life and there’s nothing I can do to change this. Helpless, I blame the world. As a grain of sand on the beach we live on, I’m angry. The wrongs can’t be righted and that is my constant frustration.