Letter 2
August 24, 2014
Dear Jesse,
After the funeral, before I was to fly back to New Orleans, I knew I needed to go there.
Jeremy urged me not to for fear it would make things worse, but I had to. For me, the only thing worse then kissing your cold face in a casket would have been to be the one that found you. Unfortunately our sister Aimee is carrying that burden for the rest of her life. As I followed the rows of motel rooms to the back, my stomach was flipped every way while my adrenalin pumped. Dad said to me pointing, “there Jenee, that’s his room.” When I pulled into the parking spot I saw two housekeeping women to the right. I got out of the car and approached them. After a short exchange she pointed me to your room, “Just go ahead through, it’s still busted from being kicked in. I’m so sorry about your brother, miss.” She was there that morning when Aimee found you. The other lady standing with her was the one who knocked on your door.
Your cigarette butts were still in the ashtray, Jesse. Some of your change still lay on the dresser.
I closed the door.
The air in the room was so stagnant. I moved towards the bed and slowly sat down on the edge.
I just sat there.
I needed to go through this. I needed to look at the very wall you looked at when the life slipped out of your body. I needed to go sit with my brother. I needed you to know I was willing to be there with you in the very place you decided to end your life. There was a part of me that couldn’t bear to think about how alone you must have felt. I couldn’t bear to think about you walking over to the trashcan to take out the liner. I couldn’t bear the thought of you knowing in that moment that you were about to kill yourself. It’s a heaviness I could never fully describe to anyone. I continued to sit and just look as if I was looking at it from your perspective. After some time I starting to talk to you. I hope you heard me.
“Jesse, I can’t believe all of this. I’m so fucking angry at you, god dam-it, Jesse! You’re fucking dead."
I sat some more.
After the anger subsided I said what I really needed you to hear--
“I’ll tell your story, brother.”
When I was ready I got up and snapped a few photographs and took one last look at the place which became your darkest moment, room #622.
