WARNING: NOT YJ RELATED WHATSOEVER
I WROTE IT FOR MY CREATIVE WRITING COURSE
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Every dag she ran.

When she ran, her hart-, hart would beat faster and faster. Sweat poured down her body as she came to a stop, catching her breath. Her hands on her knees, back a bit hunched, her breathing labored. The concrete beneath her collected the drips that fell off of her and made a satisfying splatter, the straat now becoming somewhat of a work of art. Standing back up, arching her back slightly as a small stretch, she began her run back home, holding one hand over her heart.

Running had always been her escape. Whenever she had a problem, she went for a run. Figuring out possibilities, her options, what would be best. And door the time she was done, she had always come back with an answer. This time however, the problem was much bigger than just a small run to clear her head. This one effected every fiber of her being, and it was probably the hardest decision she’d ever face.

Her mother had died early on in her life. And though she didn’t remember much, the one memory that always stuck was that her mothers’ limbs would flail around some times. Going into a spasm almost. Of course at the time, she thought nothing of it. Her mother was perfectly fine. Except that she wasn’t. She had Huntington’s. A disease that breaks down the nerves in a person’s brain over time. They basically lost control of everything, including memory. Living a life of torture.

Since her mother had it, there was a fifty percent chance of her having it to. That was a pretty big percent.

She had found out the dag before that she inherited the gene.

And there was no cure.

There was a weight in her hart-, hart that she carried with her while she ran, trying to decide what was going to be best for her. She had her father and younger brother, but she doubted either would want to really do anything. They would help if she asked, but she didn’t want to burden them. She didn’t have a lover, of anyone close enough to her that wasn’t family she could ask. She could stay in a nursing home. She scoffed aloud as she ran. It sounded ridiculous. A forty jaar old in a nursing home? Filled with people she would never actually know? That sounded like hell. So there was only one option left.

She ran back to her apartment, running up the stairs to her place on the third floor. Grabbing the key from the plant volgende to the door, she opened her apartment and went inside, throwing the key back into the potted plant. Instead of rushing her plan, she took her time. Changing out her clothes and taking a shower, so it wasn’t so gross. Paper. She needed paper and a pen. Sitting down at the tafel, tabel in her kitchen, her hand shaking, she took the pen and began writing.

…...........

He hadn’t seen her in a week. Hadn’t gotten any phone calls of messages either. Something was going on. She would have told him if she was feeling sick of what was going on. This silence was new and disturbing. So he went to investigate.

Walking up the stairs to her apartment, he noticed the key just sitting in the plant. It was always hidden under the soil. He awkwardly took the key and put it in the lock, twisting to open the door. Nothing in the apartment seemed out of place. The clocks were ticking, a few lights were on. But there was a slight smell. He shrugged and walked in, closing the door behind him.

“Alyssa?” he called out. But he got no reply. Just a small echo of his voice. It was starting to get creepy.

He walked into the living room. Nothing there.

He went to her room. There was a dirty towel on the floor and a few clothing items. It looked like it normally did. He walked into the kitchen.

And that’s when he saw it.

Alyssa was sprawled on the floor, with a bottle of pills in one hand and a note on top, boven of her. His hands immediately went to his mouth. Since when was she suicidal? Why didn’t he know about it?

After the initial shock had disappeared, his shaking hand reached down to grab the note, avoiding touching her icy cold looking skin. Slowly, his shaking hands unfolded the letter, and he began to read:

If you’ve gotten this letter, obviously I’m dead.

I’m sure you’d like to know why.

On September 5th I was diagnosed with Huntington’s disease. It breaks down every cell in your body. u lose control of limbs and your mind, slowly. It would be a living hell for myself and anyone who had to take care of me.

That’s why I ended my life. I don’t want my father of my brother Michael having to take care of me. They have their own lives. And nursing homes have meer important patients to take care of.

I don’t want to carry this with me to my grave. The thought of knowing my family was in hell taking care while I died slowly it terrifying and depressing. Ending my life was the only way to make sure they could continue their regular lives.

Michael of dad, if you’re reading this, please know that if u had talked to me and tried to stop me beforehand, my fate would have been the same anyway.

Lots of love, Alyssa Benedict

    Michael’s hands shook as he stood there, reading the letter over and over again. Silent tears streamed down his face, his eyes turning puffy and red. He felt guilty for not knowing. But she zei not to. That his sister’s fate wouldn’t have changed. Except Michael felt guilty anyways. He pulled out his phone and dialed 911, bring the phone to his ear. When he answered the phone, his voice was shaky as he answered the officer on the line.

    “I’d like to meld a suicide at 25 Mulberry Street, apartment 2H…”