I sat there as a single, angry tear rolled down my cheek. My heart banged in my chest, in my head. The more I wrote, the less I was in control, and the more the drugs were. They were taking over.

I didn’t want this. I didn’t want any of this.

If I had known what I was getting into, would I have backed out?

I can’t now. Now I’m stuck in this mess. And there is no clean way out. I’m stuck in this whirling, frantic, mess. I don’t know how I ended up here, except that it started with you. And it’s not worth it any more.

I sat there, writing it out, knowing it would be the last thing I would ever write. The pen spilt ink-blood onto the page. My hand shook. I wasn’t sure I could do this.

But I had to. I had to have enough gut to do this last, selfish thing. It would be my act of defiance. It wouldn’t solve anything, but it’s the only way I could find my way out.

So I dropped the pen, leaving the note on the table, and picked up the gun. The gun that would end your life, and then mine.