Don't think you could have helped. You couldn't have. And it's too late now. Or it will be by the time you read this. There's only one thing left you can do for me. This is how I want my funeral:
For the music, check my phone. I left a playlist on it. It's marked “Send-off”. Some of it's sad, like you'd expect, sad and soft. But a lot of it is loud. Because it's what I'd use to drown out those words, the words I heard people whisper, the words I read on-line. The words that kept shoving at me, telling me to go. Telling me no one wanted me around.
The words that put me here.
And I want flowers. White flowers. Lots and lots of white flowers. White, for purity. Because no matter what they said, no matter what pictures they posted, I was always pure. Pure inside. So show them, show them how I was inside. Show them with mountains of flowers, white flowers; show them what they destroyed.
You'll want to talk about me. Of course you will. What a good daughter I was. How much you loved me, how special I was. How much you'll miss me. Forever. You'll miss me forever. Do that. Say all that. Let everyone who loved me stand up and say that, say it so they'll hear.
But then it will be their turn. Melanie, Samantha, Sarah. Their turn to speak. I want them to get up, one after the other, and say they're sorry. Sorry for what they posted. Sorry for what they whispered. Sorry for what they made me into. What they made me in people's eyes.
And after they've said that, standing up there surrounded by all those white flowers, by the purity they stained and crushed and destroyed, I want them to say they're ashamed. Ashamed they made me do this. I want them to say that in front of everybody, so everybody will know exactly who they are. Exactly what they are. Because they'll have said it, said it in their own words. The same words they used to taunt and torment me, to hound me into a corner. A corner with no hope or light.
A corner which left me only one way out.

Copyright 2012 James B. Chevallier

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