My eyes are not deceiving me. No one else has handwriting like that. That blood is mine, but I have no marks on my body. It can’t be mine, but I know that it is. The date on it says 9/20, which was three days ago. I reread the note, my eyes wandering over what can’t be true. It would explain why Jill was so surprised to see me, as you don’t usually run into people who successfully committed suicide walking down the street. But here I am, reading a note that I wrote:
I’m sorry, I really am. I couldn’t do it. I tried for months, but now, I have to go. You’ll find me in my room, but don’t expect a response when you scream my name. None of this is your fault, I just couldn’t hold on.
It is from me, unmistakably. The last thing I remember is Bella’s house, running from her brother pretending to chase us. She’s gone, disappeared the night I died, but no one knows who she is. Her parents still have James, but instead of having an older sister, he’s an only child–And he apparently always has been. The pictures of her are gone, and Jill has no memories of her, and we never met. I don’t understand what’s happening. I haven’t gone back to my house, and I doubt that I ever will. I could never stand to see my parents disappointed like that. They found my body lying on my bed, in a pool of blood. The instant they burned my remains, I woke up in the river where they threw me. I have no clue about what’s going on.