Part Two: Send My Love a Letterbomb

WHATSERNAME SAT IN THE BACK OF THE DARK ROOM, her eyes cast downward as the town bishop, who previously hadn’t known who the hell Jimmy was, read out the traditional blessings.

Instead of listening to the meaningless drone, she tuned him out and thought of the Jesus of Suburbia’s accusations. Had it really been her who had sent Jimmy to his death? Did her so-called letterbomb really drive him over the edge? Did she really destroy the man she had once thought of as the love of her life?

She still regretted sending that damn letter in the first place. Why did she do it? She thought that the breakup was permanent. Why didn’t she think of whatever he’d been drinking that night? She knew he was desperate for something -- anything to take, but she still loved him. It wasn’t why she sent the letter.

Whatsername thought that she’d be able to come back in a month and make amends. That they’d be together forever, again, and that he’d forgive her once she forgave him for something that he probably wouldn’t even remember doing.

She was pissed off now that she’d sent that letter, sent Jimmy to his death, and he didn’t even know why she was mad at him. He must have been devastated and thought that he’d driven his girlfriend to the point of her leaving him without any notice. He must have thought that he was unloved.

Whatsername began to cry again -- for what must’ve been the fiftieth time since her lover had died two days ago. A tentative arm wrapped itself around her shoulder, but she didn’t flinch or care about it. The person could’ve been the Jesus of Suburbia and she wouldn’t have cared unless it was Saint Jimmy, who was really alive. She just wanted him back.

It wasn’t the moving words of the speech that made her cry, it was the death itself. She didn’t know why he killed himself, but she hoped that the Jesus of Suburbia wasn’t right. She hoped that she didn’t ultimately kill him.

“And so James has passed on to the next life,” stated the old creaky-limbed bishop as he read over the casket that held Whatsername’s beloved.

Jimmy wouldn’t have wanted to be remembered as the faceless ‘James.’ He would have wanted to be the Saint Jimmy, forever.

And so, to make up for possibly driving him to suicide, Whatsername stood and spoke up for her dead boyfriend.

“His name isn’t James, you fucking morons. He was St. Jimmy. He was the only sign of hope in this God-forsaken town. And you just threw it all away.”

Wiping her tears and stalking out of the aisle of chairs, she faced the bishop dead-on in the aisle: “You just threw it all the fuck away and you know what? I’m the only one left to speak up for him.”

Whatsername turned on her heel and walked to the door, opening before muttering words that only she could hear.

“So I sent my love a letterbomb. See you all in Hell.”

And she left, stalking through the thick crowd outside and to the headquarters of the Underbelly.