A stack of unsent letters.

My sister killed herself when she was twenty-six. She slit her wrists open and laid back in the warm water of the bathtub waiting for her life to drain away. When we found her, the crimson water was as cold as she was, my mother fainted at the sight, my father was as white as paper, suddenly I was the one who was in charge, the older sister. It was my duty to take care of all my sister's belongings once her body had been taken away and the bathroom cleaned. I was in her apartment when they took her away, her thin limbs white as marble, her skin unbroken except for those vertical gashes on the wrists and the old scars of other cuts, cuts that had sought pain, not death. I saw how her dark brown hair dripped on the floor, hair that had gone uncut for at least two years since she had decided to shave it all off as a dare. I also witnessed when the cleaning team had scrubbed the bathroom until no trace of blood could be found.

When everyone left, I was alone in that place that had been my sister's and that wasn't anymore. I entered the bathroom on an impulse, I wanted to see what she had seen as she died. The shower tiles were the color of sand, as were the bathtub, the sink, and the toilet, only these were a shade darker, the shower curtain a quartz pink. There was a large horizontal mirror opposite of the bathtub that would have been too high for her to see herself die, for that I was glad. Three molten aromatic candles were sitting on one of the glass shelves next to the bathtub, their smell still lingered on the air, despite the cleaning products, next to them there was a burnt match. I pictured my sister lighting the candles to keep her company as she died and I broke down crying.

I realized I needed to keep myself busy and started packing her things. Our mother had told me that, if I wanted to, I could keep something of hers as a keepsake to remember her, yet the idea repulsed me. I would have wanted to burn it all, just as we were going to cremate her, but we had decided on donating all of it, so I had to sort it out. As soon as I opened her closet I saw there were things that could not be donated, like her leather jacket. The black leather was cold to the touch as I took it off the hanger to set it apart, she had to be cremated in that, she had had that jacket since she was eighteen and she had used it until her last day. It was worn out at the elbows, but it was part of her. As I dug in her closet, the clothes piled up on the bed, a small wooden box caught my eye, it was polished and soft at the touch. I took it out and saw the wave-like engravings that decorated it, if my sister had had a passion throughout her life it had been the sea. I sat on the bed next to the piles of clothes and put the box on my lap. I felt its weight against my tights for a second before pulling the lid up. It was full of letters. I wondered who could have written to her, before realizing the letters were from her. Letters she had never sent. All the envelopes bore the same name, Mark, and an address in Portland, Oregon. 

I took the letter on the bottom of the stack first, knowing my sister that one would be the oldest one. Her writing was as beautiful as it had always been and tears piled on my eyes as I started reading. 

Dear Mark, 

We haven't talked in three months, not since you broke my heart, not since I told you I loved you, not since you tossed me away. I want to hate you, but I can't. 

I can't as I won't probably be able to send you this letter. Because I'm probably going to use them as a diary, to take the weight off my chest. 

I love you and I miss you. And everything hurts, the world hurts. It hurts so much I don't know how to stop it. I went back to cutting myself, you told me you'd be there when I fell back into darkness, but you aren't. I need you, but I might manage without you, I will manage without you because I don't have another choice. 

Yours,

Lee

I perused through all the letters, seeing my sister spiral down out of control, depressed, abandoned, alone. I was terrified of reading the last one, the one where everything ended, but I had to read it, I needed to know the last thoughts of my sister. 

Dear Mark, 

This is the last letter I'm writing to you. The pain is too heavy, it's too much for my broken mind to bear. I can't stand it, I can't stand the feeling of missing you, I can't stand the feeling of being a failure. I can't stand life. This is a goodbye. Not the one I would have wanted, but the one I got. There's much more I'd want to tell you, much more left to say, but what's the point when you're never going to read it? 

You might hear of my death, or maybe not, I don't know if you still wonder about me. If you wonder what have I been doing. I wonder if you will cry when you hear about my passing. But there's no point in wondering. 

My time here is ending. I'm still young and my heart is still pumping, but I'm tired of living. These are the last words I'll ever write. 

I'll love you forever, 

Lee