I scribbled across the page, my pencil digging into the paper. I paused to wipe the tears flowing from my eyes. I brought the pencil to my lips, but not chewing it. I hated it when people chewed pencils, mangling the smooth yellow surface with teeth marks as if it'd been gnawed by an animal.
I sniffed and underlined a word three times.
It wasn't fair. It wasn't my fault. I needed to make her understand. Taking a deep breath, I continued writing. I urged her to remember the last time it happened. As the words flowed, the tightness in my chest eased. The tears dried on my face.
I sat up, curling my legs under me. The page resting on the hard cover of a book was filled with words crammed together in a continuous silver line. I re-read what I'd written.
The anger and hurt were palatable. Tears stained the page where they'd dripped unchecked. Holding the paper, I flopped back onto the pillows piled on my bed and stared at the ceiling. I watched the shadows on the ceiling cast by the bedside lamp, thinking, remembering.
I sat up again and crushed the paper in my hands. Tossing it to the floor, I pulled a fresh sheet and put it on the book. The smooth white surface was unmarred, clean.
I walked to my desk and slowly sharpened my pencil to the perfect point. Not so sharp it would snap or break, but not so dull it would produce a thick line, marring the writing. I lay back down on the bed, my cheek inches from my page and began to write.
I'm sorry I got so upset. Sometimes I say things I don't mean when I'm angry. I do love you. A lot. I just wish you wouldn't always take her side. I love you.
I continued writing, calmer now. When I finished, I added one last "I love you" and carefully folded the paper into a tiny square. I walked to my door and cautiously opened it. Listening to the sound of the TV from downstairs, I paused.
Knowing I was alone, I walked softly into the other room and lay the folded note neatly on Mom's pillow where she'd find it before she went to bed and realize that I wasn't really angry with her.
I was just angry with everything sometimes.
This post was inspired by the Write on Edge prompt asking us to write about a letter. When I was a kid, I used to leave letters on my mom's pillow every time we had a fight. I still feel most comfortable writing my friends and family rather than stumble over my words.
5 hours ago