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This work is copyrighted to the author © 2010.  Please
don't remove the author information or make any changes
to this story.  All rights reserved. Thank you for your 
consideration.
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My Fault: A Suicide Note
by Tom Bombadil (c) Nov 1996

***

This was written in memory of a girl I once went to 
school with, a long time ago. It is very painful. The 
events are true, the words are mine. No real names have 
been used. (M/F-teen, nc, rp, inc, sn)

***

It's my fault. It was my fault. I'm to blame. Me.

One night, five years ago, Daddy came to me. I was 
sixteen.

Maybe if I'd been smarter, or yelled or screamed or 
something, he wouldn't have done what he did.

Maybe if I'd been braver and told him what Timothy and 
I had done, things would have been different.

Timothy knew. Timothy knows. After they find this note, 
everyone will know.

If I hadn't teased so much, if I'd dressed normal like 
Momma wanted me to, Daddy might not have done it. So 
many things I should have done. So many things I 
shouldn't have.

He was drunk. I knew that. I still teased him. I knew 
better, but I it did anyway. It was fun! God help me, 
it was! I never dreamed that I'd force him into doing 
what he did. I didn't know! But it was my fault for 
making him do it.

Afterwards, I couldn't talk to him. He couldn't face 
me, knowing what had happened, so he didn't talk 
either. I should have told him, made him understand, 
let him know! But I didn't. My fault!

Three weeks later, he knew. I don't know how. Maybe he 
was watching really close. Maybe he just guessed. If 
I'd been braver, or smarter, or faster, nothing would 
have happened.

He stood there at my door and asked me, straight out. 
"Are you pregnant?" 

I burst into tears and nodded. When I looked up to tell 
him, he was gone. I never saw him again that day, or 
that night, or the next day.

The next night he was there with some people I didn't 
know. They surprised me, in my own bed, asleep. One of 
them gagged me, another one tied me up, and then they 
put a blindfold on me.

I was put in a car, or maybe a small van or truck, on 
the floor in front of a seat. They took me somewhere. 
It smelled like a doctor's office. Someone gave me a 
shot of something. That's the last I remember.

It was a day later that I woke up in my own bed. It 
felt like I had a hangover. The pain between my legs, 
and the ache deep inside, told me what had happened. I 
cried. I cried for me, I cried for my lost one.

Daddy showed up at my door and looked at me. He said he 
had to.

He said it was the only way.

I was crying, but I still said some horrible things.

I said, "How could you? Murderer!"

I said, "It wasn't yours..." and he turned white, and 
left.

I was trying to say, "It wasn't yours to kill" but the 
crying got in the way.

Both were true.

If I'd told him about Timothy and me, it wouldn't have 
happened.

My baby was dead. Murdered. My fault.

The next day I learned that my Daddy had died.

An accident, they said. His car under an 18 wheeler. 
Lost control, they said. Yes, I knew that. He'd lost 
control. That's why he died. That's why my baby died.

My fault.

I never told you, Momma. I couldn't.

I can't stand the pain anymore. I hope you understand, 
Momma.

You too, Timothy. I can't take it anymore.

The pills are working. I do feel sleepy. Somewhere I 
read that this is the easiest way. I fall asleep, and 
that's it. No more pain, no more guilt.

I'm so tired...

***

Author's note: She survived this attempt and was 
institutionalized for a while. She tried again after 
she was let out and was successful. If you can call it 
success.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
This story was written as an adult fantasy. The author
does not condone the described behavior in real life.

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