Dear Jackrabbit,

The day after she died I stayed up all night with a long skinny cutting knife that lay seductively in my right hand. My left wrist was young and white, exposed and ready for the cut. I stayed up with the knife counting the number of freckles I could remember on her face until I lost count and had start again.

The day after she died I drank too much even though I was sick of the smell and taste of vodka. It was all she drank, and it was all we had, so I drank. She used to pour hers into a long slender glass she won from a radio contest three years before. I smashed it on the ground the day after she died. I drank straight from the handle and kept my eye on the knife.

The day after she died I tried electrocuting myself in a bathtub as I soaked in her scent, but I was too much of a coward and the toaster stayed rooted in my hands until the water went cold and her smell faded into the linoleum.

The day after she died I burned as many pictures of her as I could.

The day after she died I stayed up all night with a long skinny cutting knife that lay seductively in my right hand. When the sun poked its way through the red curtains it hit the edge and glinted cold and evil.

The day after she died I was still alive.