Life After Steve, Life After the Library

I miss Steve so freaking much. Sometimes I send a text to his phone, and pretend the reason doesn’t respond is because he’s mad at me, not because he’s dead. He could be mad at me forever—it’d be better than what happened.

I can’t stop thinking of all the things I could have done differently, and that one childish decision I made that ultimately killed him. I’ll never forget his screaming and folding into nothingness. The fear in his eyes and the feeling of him desperately grasping on to my hand haunts me everyday. Yet somehow it’s still hard to believe he’s gone.

There are so many things I wish I could say to him. I wish I’d been more appreciative when I had nowhere to go and he took me in. Even though he was a dick sometimes, I always knew he was some one I could turn to if I was in real trouble. It’s a little scary to not have him to fall back on anymore.

Such a selfish reason to miss someone you lost.

I miss Sonja too, but I associate her so much with my time at the mansion, so I try to not think about her. I want to leave that part of my life behind. But I don’t want to forget what I did there either. I want to take responsibility for that. I deserve everything that’s come to me.

Sometimes I’m watching a movie and I see something that reminds me of him, a cheesy looking spaceship that we’d make fun of together, or even a guy being kind of an asshole to his girlfriend, and it makes me burst into tears.

But the little things don’t bother me anymore, my new apartment has roaches and I don’t even care. Before I’d probably would have freaked out and complained, but I didn’t even flinch when I saw them in my kitchen. It doesn’t matter. I just called the exterminator, and went back to my writing. I’ve been writing a lot, I guess that’s a silver lining.

And my writing changed, it’s darker. It hasn’t lost it’s humor, but I feel the urge to make it more disturbing. I want to make other people feel how I do. I want to scare the shit out of people, or make them feel dread, but allow them to have these feelings in a safe way. Even though my writing deals with the horrible, it could be a safe place in a way.

Sometimes I think Steve might come back, but I know it’s impossible. I saw his body crumple and twist in ways no human could survive, and if his soul did survive, Sonja said she was sending it to “a special hell”. I hope he’s dead if that’s true. Thinking of him in a place of eternal suffering, all because of me, is much worse. I’m pretty much the worst ex-girlfriend ever.

I wish I could visit him, or even see him in a dream. It’s been months since he died and I haven’t dreamed of him at all.

At least I can hold on to him in my memories, and in my heart. Maybe he can even live on in my writing. I just have to keep moving, keep writing. I don’t want to move on, but I do need to move forward. And that’s what I’ll do.

This will be my last entry for Life of Kendra. So “The end.” I guess.


Previously on Life of Kendra: That Night’s Fallout
The whole story so far: Visit the Archive

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