Baby, I know our relationship couldn’t be better right now, but it’s not like I haven’t been trying. A little less communication would help. I mean, when I write to you, you don’t have to write back straight away. I can wait a few hours. Or even days. Hell, you don’t have to write back at all. Work with me here. I’m doing all I can to make things worse.

I was thinking, maybe you could hang up on me the next time I call you. No warning. Just slam down the receiver and don’t pick it up again. Do people still slam down the receiver? I guess you just push a button now. Anyhow, you know what I mean. That might make me wonder where we stand. Anything would be better than this constant state of fucking joy. Fuck that.

Also, the warm hugs are kind of messing with my mind. It’s like you like me or something. Yeah, right. If possible, could you maybe give me the cold shoulder the next time we see each other? It would make me feel like shit, and you know how much I love feeling like shit.

Look, all I’m trying to say is, things are great, but they don’t have to be. Maybe if you played some mind games with me every once in a while, or had an affair with my best friend, we wouldn’t be where we are today: on a one-way trip to Happy Land. Bleh.

Anyhow, I’m not expecting you to do everything I’ve suggested. Just take my thoughts into consideration. Or don’t. That would really piss me off.

Sincerely,

Smivey

He pressed the gun barrel against my head and pulled the trigger. There was no hesitation, no long-winded speech. One minute I was alive and pleading for my life. The next minute, I had no life to plead for.

Don’t shed a tear for me. There is no reason to mourn. I am not a ghost, nor am I the undead. You see, I never existed. I was never walking the earth. I was just a weak thought in his head, an insignificant character that had little purpose. I added to the suspense. I was page 31 in a collection of over 200.

On page 30, I was in a department store, asking to see a tie. On page 31, I was lying face down on the floor in a pool of my own tears and sweat, shaking and praying to a god I did not know. I served my purpose and now I am no more. By page 43, you will have forgotten about me. You won’t even remember my name. Because I never had one. That’s how insignificant I was. My eyes were colourless. My nationality, vague. I had no quirky speech patterns or colourful language. In fact, during my life, I only spoke one word: please. Which was quickly interrupted with a loud popping sound.

That’s how he described it: “a loud popping sound.” Not only was I an insignificant character, I was part of an insignificant book, written by an insignificant writer. Come to think of it, perhaps he did me a favour.