It needed to be perfect, perfectly imperfect to be exact. It needed to be just off, just a little bit off so it would be right, so it became truly significant to that time and place. The dark-colored-book on my nightstand was strategically placed, not completely aligned with the bed but turned slightly to the left, as if I had put it there without really looking, without really caring if it were placed right. But I did. I did care and I still do. I care so much about something so small, the exact position of that exact book matters so much. He has to remember it right. The way that soon-to-be moment will be memorized by him is of such importance, too critical to not care about the placement of a book.

 

            The blinds I had half opened, it was only morning by then and the bright light of the sun reflecting on the neighbor’s solar panels blinded me for a few seconds. Enough reason for me to not open them completely and letting the reflecting light of the sun not brighten my whole room but just leaving small stripes of white light on the wooden floor. Stripes that have now turned warm and yellow, due to the sun setting in this godforsaken town. Don’t get me wrong, Turnhurst wasn’t a bad place to live at all. It’s simply not for me. And to be quite honest, I don’t think any town ever will be the place for me. Hence why I’m doing this.

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            It’s 05.12 p.m. and he should call me soon, telling me he is on his way, while having no clue that this day – this simple and regular April day – will be a day he’ll most likely relive a couple of times in his dreams, if not more. I grab my phone from next to me, my hand brushing against the soft and light fabric of my dress. It’s a new one. White, ending just above my knees and long sleeves. Maybe not very convenient for what I’m about to do, but it will look good. I will look good.

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            The phone vibrates in my hand, it’s time. Slightly nervous, but absolutely ready to take matters in my own hand – pun intended – I pick up and hold it to my ear.

            “Hi Dad.”

            “Hey sweetheart, I just finished work. I’ll be home in around fifteen minutes. Can you turn the stove on?”

            “Of course. See you in a bit. Bye”

            “Bye. I love you.”

            “I love you too,” I say, knowing he will cherish the spoken words.

​

            I take a deep breath. This is it. I am as ready as I will ever be. Almost ready then. I get up and walk to my desk. The candle already standing there, waiting to be lit. It smells strongly like strawberries, or rather, it smells strongly like the smell of strawberry candles that candlemakers want you to believe is the actual smell of strawberries, which it very much is not. With the lighter lying next to it, I finally light the candle. The flicker of the flame carries an orange glow all around the candle, just enough for the warm light to reach my letter. It just lays there, ready to be opened by him, or perhaps by the police. Though I have tried to plan this as thoroughly as I could, I can’t plan his reaction and that’s okay. It has to be real. It has to be real, for it to truly be perfectly imperfect.

​

            The lighter in my hand I throw in my trash can, it’s not like I’m going to need it after this anyways. I walk back to my bed and sit down on it. No. This isn’t perfectly imperfect. This is just perfect. For the last time, I stand up, grab the letter from the desk and sit down again at the exact same place. For a while, what I think were mere seconds, but felt like hours, I look at the letter. This really is it. My last words. For ever. After all, I am not an asshole who just leaves without saying goodbye, I simply wanted to choose my own ending.