Neither of us cried when we watched the Every 15 Minutes presentation last week. I didn't cry; I don't usually cry openly, even though I can feel sorrow very deeply. At the time, I began to wonder what it would feel like to write one of those letters. How would I even begin to convey everything I want to say to my friends or my family? I'm writing to you, because I know you will read this, and because we are so similar, you and I, that I think you will understand what I'm trying to say.
I don't know if I fear dying, per se. I have never been in so much pain that I would want it all to end. I cannot comprehend that level of pain; therefore, I suppose I am not afraid of the act of dying itself. What I fear is the unknown. Being extinguished, becoming nothing. There are still too many things I have not done yet; it is too early for me to leave.
The football player left the biggest impact on me when he read his letter to his parents last Thursday. I would never have expected him to pen such a beautiful letter, nor would I have expected him to choke up in tears. When he spoke about never revealing his emotions while he was "alive", I knew that he and I were the same.
It is always the what-ifs that torment people. What if I hadn't drank that last can of beer? What if I had tried to stop her from getting into the car with her drunk boyfriend? What if I hadn't gone to Lake Tahoe for vacation and ended up being hit by an intoxicated driver on the way home?
What if I hadn't chose to sit next to you in seventh grade? What if we had not been placed in the same hellish Core class? What if my parents had decided to move to a different town when they came to California?
I initially had doubts about going to Senior Ball. I like to say that I don't care about going stag -- "I'll knock them dead anyway" -- but I'm not as strong as I'd like to seem. I know how the power of dressing up -- four-inch platform shoes, short red dress, cropped hair, smoky eyes -- can boost one's self-confidence. But it doesn't really matter as much when everybody you know is freaking on the dance floor. If I was the girl I'd like to be, I would have rocked on by myself, regardless of whether or not somebody had his hands on my hips.
But I'm not.
I don't know if you really don't like dancing. Somehow, I'm not so sure, because you kept bouncing up and down in your seat to the rhythm of the music. But whatever the case, I was very relieved about being able to sit with you and SM while the others were on the dance floor. At times, I felt guilty, as if I was intruding on something between you and your date. But I confess, I was very glad you were there for me that day. You were the one who kept watching out for me, especially once we finally stepped onto the dance floor during the last hour of the Ball. It was you who took my last dance.
Throughout the night, I kept asking myself the same what-if questions. What if I hadn't decided to come? What if somebody I did not particularly like had asked me, and I had said yes? What if I had asked somebody to be my date, even though I already know in my gut that I'd be miserable if I pair up with someone I am not comfortable with?
In the end, I am glad I went. It was something I needed to do for myself, a way for me to mark the end of this chapter of my life. I feel liberated in the fullest sense of the word. The cage is gone. I am free.
Saturday marked the first time I ever danced with a guy in my life. That probably makes me seem very pathetic -- how many people have gone through their teenage years without slow-dancing? It probably didn't mean much to S, but for me, it gave me a sense of hope that maybe I'm not the antisocial, ugly, untouchable girl that I'm sometimes convinced I am. I have friends who look out for me, who lean onto my shoulder when we ride on CalTrain to San Francisco, who buy corsages for me for Senior Ball, who draw comic books with me when we're bored, who ask me to dance when I'm standing by myself, who patiently listen to me rant as I drive home from school, who have endured my teasing ever since third grade, who speedwalk like maniacs with me from Pier 39 to Pier 1 at Fisherman's Wharf.
When it comes down to dying, maybe it's not that I fear failing to accomplish everything I had dreamed of. When the "Living Dead" read their letters to us, to their family, to their friends, none of them really spoke of never being able to attend their dream college or becoming a professional athlete. Those tears and choked sobs were dedicated to the ones they'd left behind.
I don't want to die. Not if it means leaving everyone else behind.
I don't know what the hell I'm going to write in your yearbook, Rogue. There are too many things that I don't know how to say.
Love,
Sophelia
Sophelia
