Chilled air filled my mouth and stung my teeth as I inhailed deeply. The first few drops of blood fell to the grey, diminished carpet in my room. I looked down at my arm, crimson and flowing. The pain was like a cool wash cloth on the forhead of a fever. Cutting the wrist was cliche, but I had to start somewhere. I looked out the window of my second story window. The snow fell, silencing the meadow with a blanket of white. So peaceful. So distant. The contrast it had with the agony of my mind made me exhale loud and hard.
I squeezed my arm with the opposite hand as my gaze followed the meadow to the lake it lead to. It looked dead, barren. It was perfect. Soon I would write to Davey one last time. He’d find the letter on my desk as he came to wake me. My handwriting scribbly and barely legible. By then I will have already walked myself into the lake in the dead of the night. I lowered my head, put the scissors back on the desk, and turned on my lamp. I began writing…

My dearest Davey....