Hello, everyone! I come to you to share a weird finding I had while browsing over my aunt’s stuff. For a little bit of context, her name was Ruby (fake name due to privacy concerns; all names here have been changed) and she passed away about a year ago. I didn’t really see her very often, as her and my mom’s relationship wasn’t exactly close. Overall, my mom wasn’t close to any of her family members. She never gave me too many details; she just always seems nonchalant when the topic is brought up. It didn’t really feel like she was hiding something, it just seemed there really wasn’t much to tell. To be honest, I kind of imagine my maternal grandparents as these little beige, filler characters in her life. The ones that are just sort of… there.
My aunt Ruby was a mystery to me. My mom seldom spoke of her. The few times she did tell me about her, she painted her as just another kid with her own interests that didn’t quite match my mom’s. They saw each other because they cohabited, but they each had their own friends and their own hobbies. Ruby was 5 years younger than my mom, so it’s pretty understandable that they didn’t have much in common. Around two years ago, I know she had some sort of issue that required my mom to visit her after years of near non-existent contact. She stayed for 3 weeks or so. When she came back, for once, I felt like she was hiding something from me. I didn’t pry too much, seeing as I figured it might be a bit of a sore spot for her. Since then, I hadn’t really heard anything about Ruby until a year ago, when we got news of her passing. Her parents held a funeral in their hometown, which was attended by both my parents.
Ruby left her things to my mom. She was in her late 30’s, and she lived in Brooklyn. Neither my mom nor her parents knew what to do with it all, so my mom kept on postponing it and paying the lease. About 3 months ago, she brought it up to me. My university is in Manhattan, and I have had a few disagreements with my current roommates that led me to consider moving out. Mom offered to let me stay in Ruby’s apartment until I finished uni, if I was the one who took on the job of sorting her stuff out and figuring out what to do with it. I moved in a few weeks ago, and have been slowly making my way through her things. Last night, while moving around a pile of clothes on the floor of her tiny walk-in closet, I found what I think was supposed to be a diary. There was only one, looong entry, and it seemed mostly brand new. The handwriting was very poor, so it took me all day to type it all up. I have posted in italics the parts she underlined. A lot of parts have been roughly scratched off, especially around the second half. I think Ruby might’ve had a bit of a hard time keeping her own train of thought. The darkened parts I was still able to make out seemed to be more rambling about what she thought in the moment and self-doubt. It almost looked like she was writing down her thoughts as they happened, asking rhetorical questions that she would almost immediately answer herself. What I think happened is that she might’ve realized along the way, or in the end, that it made her story much harder to comprehend, so she opted for messily removing the parts that didn’t serve a clear purpose for the conveying of her account.
The following is the transcription of everything written in that diary, with the darkened parts left out.
———
The envelope on the table stared back at me. I had been sitting in this couch, completely still, for the past hour and a half. The little piece of paper had shown up at my doorstep, with no stamp nor return address. While that in and of itself might be extremely off putting to some, it was certainly not the creepiest part.
No one knew I was here. After feeling more than just a little overwhelmed with my life, carrying every single patient’s emotional baggage and trauma as if it were my own, I decided I needed to get away from it all. My small apartment in Brooklyn rested unwatched, (hopefully) eagerly awaiting my return. I knew damn well no one and nothing else was.
I have devoted my entire life to my career as a psychologist, pushing myself to my limits every day, knowing I have yet to deal with my own trauma and emotional instability, yet still pushing myself further and further. I would be lying if I said I regret any of it. My family didn’t care enough to even send me christmas postcards, let alone to come visit me after I moved out. To be honest, I don’t even know if they’re still alive, and I don’t say that to be a dick. Things just didn’t work out between us. We were a boring, average family with some quarrels here and there, but we were the definition of « if we weren’t related, I wouldn’t be your friend ». I had no common interest with my parents, and I’m pretty sure they had no common interests amongst them either. We coexisted because it was what society expected. I guess it kept us from being swallowed by the void that is loneliness. My sister was like a roommate that you rarely bump into because your schedules are so different. As adults, we seldom wrote to each other, giving the smallest life updates because of… courtesy, I guess?
So then, who else could it have been? My friends? I have none. I have never quite felt like I connected with anyone throughout my life, and certainly not enough to develop strong emotional bonds with others. My nights consist of going over my cases to figure out any new breakthroughs I can help them get to, and my off days involve eating junk food and watching true crime documentaries. I have no coworkers, as I work independently.
Unless the guy who runs the deli down the street decided to reach out and try to befriend me through a creepy little correspondence sort of communication, the only other significant person would be… my ex. But my ex fiancé, a kind and sweet man, had long since passed away in a car crash. I know, it sounds cliché, and I sure as hell have seen that backstory in hundreds of movies, but it happens. It wouldn’t be in a movie if it didn’t happen, right..?
I forced myself to shake the nerves off. What was the point in figuring out who it was? The envelope was right in front of me and it most surely contained the answer within. But lately, it seemed like anything and everything could quickly send me into an existential spiral, making me remember how out of place and alone I have always felt. That was the whole reason I decided to get away from it all. Clearly, the change in scenery was not enough to change the way my brain is wired.
With a heavy sigh that cut my racing thoughts short, I finally stretched my hand forward, grabbing the letter with no delicacy at all. Although I knew the anger was misplaced, I briefly blamed the letter for my chronic overthinking. Yeah, if you weren’t here, I would already be halfway through my emotional healing, I would feel completely at peace with my life decisions, and I would have friends! As stupid as I knew it was, I felt a little relief when I felt the elegant paper wrinkle a little under my unsophisticated fingers. Without allowing any more thoughts to stop me from taking action, I forcefully ripped it open at the top, not even attempting to see if the dainty wax seal could be seamlessly removed.
A wedding invitation.
A… a what? Do people with no friends get these? Is there some sort of service that gives out random invites for the lovebirds who have no friends? Wasn’t that sort of the premise of that one movie in which these two guys charge for being the best-man at a friendless guy’s wedding? Or was it a fucking joke? Someone who knew how lonely I am, willfully mocking my forsakenness? What kind of freak takes the fucking time to pick on someone they don’t even know? Or maybe it wasn’t someone I didn’t know. Maybe it was that ugly fucking neighbor one floor above me. That fucking pig always envied how skinny I am. And she probably holds a grudge against me for that one time I threw her birthday cake, which was wrongfully delivered to my doorstep, at her own door. But she earned that. She probably did it on purpose, she just wanted to see me grow as fat as her. But I’m not like her. I have control. I can control what I eat and what I don’t eat ANY FUCKING DAY OF THE WEEK UNLIKE H-
The ding of my phone brought me back. Just another e-mail notification from one of the magazines I had subscribed to. Right. The invite. The bright purple and teal paper read:
Kindly join us for the wedding celebrations of Jake & Valentine…
The rest of the details blurred together as I tried to process what I was reading. Jake? Why did that name sound so familiar? Didn’t I date someone with that name? I can’t say I remember all of the people I dated because, before Jake, all I had were quick flings that tended to end even quicker than they started, because every single one of them was just so selfish and self-centered, they all ended up abandoni- Wait, so I do know Jake? Oh… That Jake? The one I was going to marry??? It was absolutely impossible. No fucking way. He was dead, wasn’t he?
Looking over the royal blue and sage invitation, I reread the first few sentences:
Mr. and Mrs. Winterbourne cordially invite you to celebrate the holy union of their son and his beloved, Jake & Ruby…
That was my wedding invitation. The one that I never got to send out. That wasn’t the same one as the one I read before… was it? I don’t remember seeing my name. I would’ve noticed if my name had been there before. Was Jake’s name there all along? I would’ve noticed that too, wouldn’t I have?
Kindly join us for the wedding celebrations of Jake & Valentine…
Dumbfounded, I kept starring at the wedding invitation. My gaze must’ve looked vacant because, I can tell you, my mind went blank, in that moment. There was no more analyzing going on, no more trying to understand shit and piece things together. My rambling thoughts were quiet for once. I knew that was not what I had just seen. Even the colors were different now.
Jake. My Jake? Was this a prank? Or was it another Jake? No last names were mentioned in the original invite. Maybe it was just a macabre coincidence. Maybe it’s just my own cognitive distortions, personalizing shit that has nothing to do with me. But… why? Honestly, beyond me taking things personally, as I know I can sometimes do, it made more sense to be invited to the wedding of my deceased ex than being invited to the wedding of two perfect strangers. I didn’t know a Valentine and I certainly didn’t personally know any other Jakes. Maybe an IT guy at that enterprise I worked at like a decade ago… No. It made no sense. But why would anyone pull such a sick stunt on me?
Clinking. I swear I heard the sound of glasses gracefully tinkling against each other. I started looking at my surroundings, feeling a little disoriented. Where could that sound have possibly come from? Clink. I snapped my head towards the sound. There was something wrong. It came from the letter. Suddenly, the intricate patterns that lined it started moving, veeery slowly. I stared, in absolute awe. My head, that had gone blank for a few seconds, started producing thoughts again, and there was one in particular that overpowered them all: Have I gone crazy?
The patterns slowly rearranged themselves, going from pretty plants with pretty leaves, to… a ring. A ring? The minimalist style was becoming very realistic, to the point my fingers mindlessly tried to grab it, only to find that it was still very much ink and paper. The now almost picture-like item was made of a rose-gold band, with patterns in the shape of spades, mirrored by upside down, silver spades. The setting held a turquoise, heart-shaped stone, that I could only assume was a diamond ring.
Where have I seen that before?
Ah. My engagement ring. My taste had always been a bit quirky, and Jake knew that very well. I brought up the topic of marriage a few months into dating him. At first, he freaked out. But after enough insinuations and, to be completely honest, begging on my part, he finally gave in. I made sure to make it my dream proposal, my dream ring, my dream wedding… Everything was perfect, and it was exactly what I’d dreamed of since I was little. I wore that ring with pride, getting lost in it’s shine very often.
Lost in my daydream, I had failed to register that the beautiful drawing was now taking a more sinister turn. It was bleeding. Red beads, that I first didn’t notice at all, were slowly beginning to drip down, as if the invitation was standing. The gravity of it made it seem like the letter was standing vertically on the table, yet she still lay, unmoved, on the table. Or maybe it was just gravitating towards me. The paint, dripping « down » slowly, finally brought me out of my rêverie. Why blood? On my beautiful dream?
Feeling like I got hit by a truck, I remembered. I finally remembered what had happened. The fuzzy thoughts gave me a headache as they slowly took shape and, suddenly, I felt like a veil had been lifted, like I had been in a haze this whole time.
My relationship with Jake was always complicated. I always felt like I was constantly chasing him, the same way I’d always been chasing everyone else I ever loved. Every boyfriend I had, they always lost interest in me and I was left in the ashes, trying desperately to reignite our love. I always had the personal belief that I had to hold on to those I loved; if they got away, than I would at the very least make my grip on them leave scars so they would always remember me. The same was true for Jake.
He was my dream man. As soon as I saw him, standing there in my office’s doorway, I knew. The more we talked, the harder I fell for him. He had come see me because he had some issues with anxiety. Despite being a grown man, he had barely any experience talking to women, let alone dating them. I found the idea of breaking him in exhilarating, especially because I knew that would make him more loyal to me. With how shy he was, flirting with him had an immediate reaction in him, and I had him blushing and looking down at his feet almost constantly. I would be the only one he had ever loved, and that he would ever love. Our romance blossomed at the same pace I wanted it to, and our whirlwind romance left the office and moved into the bedroom rather quickly. Within a couple of weeks, I had worn him down into being my boyfriend, and a couple of weeks later, I moved in to his apartment.
We talked constantly. I got him into the habit of telling me what he was doing, where he was, and who he was with on a near hourly basis, the same way I did, which showed how transparent we were with each other. His anxiety didn’t get much better, and he sometimes had panic attacks in which he became so disoriented he even told me he didn’t want to be with me and things were moving too fast, but I always knew how to calm him down. He was my forever person, and deep down, he knew it too. He asked my opinion about going to a psychiatrist (I also got into his thick, avoidant skull that being in love meant making choices together, so he always asked for my opinion before doing something he wasn’t completely sure I would be ok with) and I was adamant that it would be a bad idea. I have to admit, I fibbed a little bit, there. I told him, in my professional opinion, that medication was bad for him, that he could easily become dependent or go through side effects that made his anxiety far worse. The truth was, I was worried about a number of things. For one, what if she was a woman and he fell in love with her? What if he enjoyed her company better than mine? What if they poisoned him against me and made him believe he’d be better off without me? What if his anxiety did go away, and that gave way to newfound confidence to talk to other women and abandon me?
His anxiety didn’t get better, but our love did. It had more and more passion every day. I know I can be a little demanding sometimes, but let’s be real, love is demanding. When you love someone, they become your whole world and nothing and no one else matters. I gave him that, so I expected him to do the same for me. I knew he had a few online guy friends with whom he played video-games with, when he wasn’t coding away at work. Sometimes, he put them before me, as if he loved them more than he loved me, and he chose to spend a few hours playing with them instead of cuddling with his fucking girlfriend. The fights that came out of that were a bit intense, as shown by the broken dishes, keyed car, and the whiskey stained sofa. I knew I could be a little impulsive, but it was only because he was my whole entire heart. He always understood, in the end. He truly loved me; he always forgave the scratches and the bruises on his skin, because he knew it was all out of love. He knew I never wanted to hurt him, I just wanted him to feel the way I did.
Some of my less proud moments involved me hurting myself. I knew he would drop whatever he was doing, even his little tantrums, and come running to save me. I’m not saying I only cut, burned, and punched for attention; not at all. Sometimes, when you feel an aching emptiness inside of you or, on the complete contrary, so many fucking emotions that are so painfully intense yet… unknown, that physical pain is the only way to try and snap out of it.
As he got bolder throughout the relationship, him making choices without my consent became a bit more prevalent, and the spirals I went through because of it, often led me to hurting myself. He even tried to break up with me a few times, and I swallowed pills, cut wrists, and drowned my sorrows in bottles and bottles of whiskey. If I couldn’t be with him, if he couldn’t admit to himself just how deeply he loved me, then I didn’t want to exist. I just wanted it all to go the fuck away. One of the last little episodes in which I tried to off myself happened because I went through his phone and found out he had been seeing a psychiatrist behind my back. Worst of all, it was a she. He had started taking anxiety medication, which he hid inside his fucking pillow. It all made sense, then. She had falling in love with him too, and she had started trying to seduce him, all the while poisoning his mind against me. That’s why he tried breaking up with me. I just fucking know it was.
As life does, things got better. After my third suicide attempt in our relationship, he finally let himself express his love for me. I know it can be hard for avoidant people; after all, it’s in the name. They fucking avoid things. And that very much includes emotions. But our love broke him out of it. Our love FIXED him. And so, he stopped resisting it. He stopped seeing the psychiatrist. He stayed by my side constantly, he stopped talking to his friends, and he even stopped talking to his bitch of a sister who always had something against me. He also stopped picking up his parents’ calls, and I kind of blocked their e-mails and other social media accounts from Jake’s own accounts. We had never given them our new address to begin with, since, as I explained to Jake, that would just add the possibility of them showing up unannounced and it would set him back deeply with his newfound independence. If he ever noticed, he didn’t say anything. Economically, I was doing very well. I stopped going to the office and, instead, only did virtual appointments, which allowed me to stay home with him 24/7. We were perfectly happy.
By that point, I had already brought up marriage a few times. He tended to change the topic innocently, completely forgetting that my entire fucking job consists of seeing those avoidant behaviors and squashing them. With enough puppy eyes, great fucking sex, and sweet words, I eventually convinced him that it was what was best for us. And so, the wedding planning began. He was always very detached from feminine stuff like fashion and interior design, so he didn’t have too much input for the wedding. He tried to give me a few suggestions at one point, but I had to explain to him that it didn’t really reflect my dream wedding, and I had already everything picked out in my head. He loved me dearly and of course he wanted to do anything he possibly could to make me happy. He knew how tough things had been for me since I was a teenager and he wanted to do it all for me, to give me all my unfulfilled childhood dreams with his wonderfully unconditional love. Everything was going great.
However, a few days before we were set to send out our invites, he told me we had to talk. Those words triggered something in me, and before even knowing what it was he wanted to say to me, I had a bit of a crisis. I cried until my face was red and my head was pounding. The wailing had left my throat dry and my voice hoarse. I had frantically scratched my arms, effectively leaving deep gashes that bled uncontrollably. I have to say, I’ve had crisis before, but I think that one was one of the worst ones. Jake was the only one of my partners that ever cared enough to stop me… except this time, he didn’t. He just curled up into a ball in the corner of the room and hid his face behind his knees. He was shaking uncontrollably and, while a part of me broke seeing him like that, another part of me kept me going. What was previously the deepest sea of sorrow I had ever felt, a feeling that tore at the very fiber of my soul, turned into a blinding rage. All the negative, sad, catastrophic thoughts were wiped, and what I could only describe as a white fog instilled in my head. There were no thoughts, no sounds, no nothing. What happened afterwards, I couldn’t possibly tell in detail.
All I remember is coming to in the hospital. My wrists were strapped down which, as you can imagine, isn’t exactly a good sign. Jake was nowhere to be seen… So I panicked. The rage I felt before I lost consciousness was so… deep. I had no thoughts, but I knew my instincts were telling me what they always do when I know someone is going to leave me: I want them to feel the way I do. And if I can’t do that emotionally, then I will sure as hell do it physically. Lots of thrashing and yelling out ‘Jake’ ensued, until the nurses came to calm me down. By then, the blood vessels beneath the straps had broken, and my skin turned red.
Once I finally calmed down, mostly due to all the drugs that were pumped into me, a psychiatrist came in to evaluate me. He explained that Jake was fine, and all I did was throw some dishes and break a window. He was left mostly unharmed, except for a few cuts from the glass shards. Apparently, I started yelling some… not so nice things. I have always been one to hit people where it hurts when I get mad, but the things I said to him were simply something I will never stop regretting. The psychiatrist told me they had run some tests on me, because one of the several things I’d told Jake, was that I was pregnant. Shortly thereafter, I took a kitchen knife and very unceremoniously attempted to stab myself, telling him I hoped he knew the death of his beloved and the death of his child would be on his hands. I’m guessing that’s around the time in which he called the police. No one has ever given me too many details about what happened, so there’s a lot of holes in the version of the story I have from that day.
Life has never been on my side. I may have never been directly abused by my parents, but the emotional abandonment ruined me in ways I could never explain. No amount of psychiatrists and attempted diagnosis could have changed that, or me. Throughout the following months, I was legally forbidden from contacting him again. I had no clue where he’d gone, but I did my best to find him every single day. By the time I found his address, I wasn’t exactly in a position to go visit him… but I did write letters to him. I apologized over and over again, promising this time would be different. This time I would change, but he never wrote back. He finally went completely off the grid, and moved again. This time, I had no luck finding him. At that point, I finally had the freedom to go find the love of my life, but he was nowhere to be seen. And so, I spent the next few months wallowing in my own sorrow. My practicing license was taken away, and I had no energy or will to look for a job. My life savings were enough to keep me afloat for a while. I mostly stopped eating, partly because it was a less than acceptable coping skill I had taken up whenever I felt unworthy of a boy’s love, and partly because I had no will to exist. The only times I felt alive were when I went on large shopping sprees that left my credit cards bleeding.
Almost a year had passed since the incident, when I had the misfortune of bumping into her. Valentine. My love had moved on, and it was with that hooker. She had a basic engagement ring on, and I caught her talking to him over face-time. It was one of the few times that year that I had worked up the courage to go out, and I was on my way to a tiny little bar on the outskirts of New York. She walked past me, and the sound of Jake’s voice was unmistakable. I followed her. I followed her all the way to the car, feeling the void and the anger both growing inside of me. Her laugh was like sticking barbed wire in my ears and it left a metallic taste in my tongue. At that moment, I genuinely believe I would have killed her, had I been given the chance. I wanted to hurt her, badly. I wanted her to feel the ache inside my soul that I had felt for the past year. But she was quicker than me, and before I had any sort of weapon, she was peeling off the parking lot. I was left alone, feeling emptier than I had ever felt before. He called her my love, which he had never called me. I called him that. And he never reciprocated. I insisted so many times on him giving me a pet name, any pet name, but he never could.
I had only one thing left to do. I dropped by the bar, got near blackout drunk, and took a cab home. She was gone, and I knew he was too. I had no will left in me to follow either of them, to beg him any longer. He had finally found what he really wanted. He had finally found his love. And so, as soon as I got home, I took out a bottle of whiskey and downed the full bottle of mood stabilizers and the full bottle of anti-psychotics that I’d been prescribed. I had refused to take them, knowing they would make me less… me. They would take my spark away. And for once in my life, that was the only thing I wanted. I wanted the spark gone, as well as everything else.
That day, I killed myself. I had nothing left to live for. Now, I’m not sure how I ended up here, in a cabin. I had lost everything long before this. What I do know is that, wherever I am, I’m being punished. I don’t know if Jake is doing it willingly or if this is just my personal hell, but I’m writing everything down in the hopes that someone, anyone, will remember at least a little piece of me. I’m going to kill myself again. I don’t know if that is even possible, if that will take me away from here or not, if that will make things better or worse. But I know I’m tired, and the sound of laughter that has been coming from that letter since I started writing has only gotten louder. I feel like I’m in the middle of their wedding, hearing as whispers the words of affection that the guests are saying about the lovely bride and groom.
« They’re a match made in heaven »
« After everything he went through, it’s so wonderful he found his other half »
« You should’ve seen what he was life before he met her. She’s so good for him »
« I have never seen him so happy »
I recognize the voice of his sister and his parents, talking to each other in a jovial tone they had never graced me with. I have never, ever felt so… inhuman. Ever since Jake left, a part of my humanity died. I have been living with a metaphorical knife stuck in my heart, and the more I hear the sweet words and Jake and his new wife’s laughter, the deeper it plunges. If you’re reading this, I hope you understand me. I have lived with the guilt of many of the cruel things I have said to those I love, especially Jake. I’m not a monster. I just wanted to be loved, and anyone who had felt as lonely as me, would have done it all the same. Please remember me as someone who genuinely tried to find love, even if my attempts were sometimes misguided.
- Ruby Winterbourne
———
Well, that’s all. Everything that was in the diary is now typed up above me. The entry in the diary is dated a couple days after she died. My mom never told me how or where it happened, so I can’t help but wonder if she was in the apartment when she… you know. From what I’ve read, she was a very troubled woman, who had a hard time differentiating what went on in her head and what happened in the real world. I don’t know if she was delirious right before committing suicide and she wrote this the day she died, or if maybe she was just lying to make her death more theatrical. What I do refuse to believe, is that she was in another plane of existence and the diary somehow made its way here. I have made up my mind, and I’m going to ask my mom what really happened and what she knows about her sister when she comes visit me, in a week. Aaaand I’ll be sleeping at a friend’s until my mom gets here. I don’t care if she’s a ghost or not, being in her apartment, knowing all the shit she probably did while she was alive is fucked up enough to make me reconsider strongly the whole ‘living here’ thing. The worst part is that the story got in my head, and now I think I’m starting to hear the whispers too.