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In my freshman year, I read Catcher in the Rye and became, like most teenagers, sympathetic to the plight of growing up in an uncaring modern world. So, I wrote a story about someone else enamored of the story. This is a rewrite of that story. I don't know if I've done very well, to be honest. I think it's an alright story, not the most tightly written thing I have ever crafted. I plan to work on this as well as "One Autumn's Night" to refine them. You'll see an edit when this happens.
This is the last short story I am going to write for a little while. The end of my "voice bootcamp" over the last six weeks, but not the end of my writing. I thank everyone who has been willing to read all my writing and to provide me feedback.
Dear Phoebe,
It's me! I know it's been a while but I saw a special edition of Catcher in the Rye and thought about you. I know it was one of your favorites. It reminded me of that time we went and set up flashlights in trees and danced by river. I really miss doing things like that. You can't do that here, especially not at night.
You probably want to know about Everett. Well, everything here sucks. I don't know why dad wanted to move here. It's so noisy and there aren't any parks or rivers. I guess it's convenient that the Starbucks is closer but it sure isn't a Cafe13. I miss that place. No where else puts amaretto in their shakes! Fucking bullshit.
We should chat sometime. Do you have Discord? Or Facebook? Or a cell phone? Mine is XXX-XXX-XXXX. Call me!
Dear Phoebs,
It's cool if I call you "Phoebs" again, yeah? Like old times?
Your social media absence is really weird but I totally get it. I wish I could just disconnect like that but then I wouldn't get to here about how the President fucked up again or see the hottest memes. I know it'd mean I wouldn't get distracted from my writing, but it'd make a lot of things less convenient.
Anyway, school isn't great. Everyone here is so petty and no one says what they mean. I feel so alone here. Back home, I felt like people got me. You could be weird if you wanted. Everyone loved you, for instance, and they couldn't even see you. Here, everyone is like, "Oh yeah, we're all a family" but then they go and call you "faggot" behind your back, you know? And no one cares about their education here. They don't get that school is supposed to churn out better citizens so we can vote and be prepared for our careers in a multifaceted job market and shit. It's not all pointless. But the teachers don't really give a damn either.
Maybe I shouldn't either.
I'm glad to hear you get to go to Calwood again this year! I wish I could go. Remember when we snuck out and looked at the stars and made up stories because neither of us knew any constellations? Stars are so big up in the mountains. You sure as fuck can't see that here in Everett. Plus, it rains so much. I use to like the rain when we'd go play tag. I hate it now. You make everything better.
So, I know your dad doesn't like it, but call me anyway. I'm not just "a guy", we've been friends forever! He likes me, it'll be fine. I wanna know what you think about that story I sent you!
Dear Phoebs,
Why didn't you return my phone call when you said? I hope I didn't get you in trouble. I really just needed to hear your voice again. Sometimes, I think I can't anymore. But I can't deal with that. I have to keep going.
The reason I'm kinda having a meltdown is cuz mom called and tried to apologize again and it just sucks. And dad was all quiet. Not that he usually talks to me, or reads any of my shit, but you know how he can get. To make matters worse, I had a fit and threw out all my writing. It all sucks anyway.
You're the only one who can help now. I don't have any friends at school and I just need someone I can talk to. Someone who will listen to me.
I wish you'd just fucking pick up.
Dear Phoebe,
Sorry about my last email. I wasn't in a good place. Dad told Mom she could just take me if she wanted. But I don't really want that either. Sometimes, I think they'd be happier about their divorce if I just wasn't around. But you don't want to hear about that heavy shit. Sorry.
I hope you didn't get in trouble. Please call me sometime. I need you.
Phoebe,
Hey, we really need to talk. I really need it. Please call.
<No New Emails>
Phoebe,
This place sucks ass. My room is all white. I can't have anything to write with. They make me talk to a bunch of people. A lot of them have it worse than me. Sometimes, it makes it seem like I'm not alo Gotta go, not supposed to be taling to y
There once was a boy who lived in little white box. He heard the voices of one thousand people in his head--all of them, friends. He lived alone in his white box. He was not alone.
If only anyone understoo sicvBBC vv
Dear Phoebe,
I don't really know how to start this. "Hi", I guess. It's me again. But it always has been me. The doctor's said I shouldn't send these anymore. But they gave me back my email and I'm going to do what I want. I promise it's my last one.
I tried to kill myself because I thought no one cared about me. I still think no one cares about me but when the ambulance came, I felt relieved that I didn't die. So I guess I have to keep going.
See, the first thing that crossed my mind as I jumped off that bridge was "Would the water be too cold?" and then "What are they gonna do with my clothes when they find me?" You can't donate the clothes of a kid who committed suicide. That's a sad story to write into clothes.
And then, I thought about you. It's shocking how quickly your mind works when it thinks it will die. At first, I was mad you didn't feel like you needed me. I was mad that you didn't need me like I needed you. But I realized something strange: You need me to exist. As do all the other characters and stories and all the writing I want to do. I can't do any of that if I'm dead.
I don't know when I started sending emails to no one. And I really don't remember when I started actually expecting you to reply. But I know that it stops now. I think I wanted there to be someone for whom my life was worth living. The doctors say that "someone" is me. I don't know if I believe them yet... But I do know that I want to write more stories. Even if none of them are any good. I want people to meet you, like they did in the past. I want them to feel like they know you like how I know you.
Some of the doctors said my writing is really good and I should pursue it. I think they're crazy. But the fact that they think I have a more hopeful future at all is both really nice and a lot of pressure.
So, I guess I'm saying that even though I'm not going to send emails to you anymore, you'll keep existing in my stories. I don't need you to reply anymore. I can already hear what you'd say in my head.
And you'd say, "This is all very silly. Stop pining after me! Go live your life to its fullest."
So that's what I'll do.
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