There were six letters tacked to the wall. None extended past the length of one page. The first was a pale yellow, curling at the corners with age. It was dated December 3rd, 1996. It arrived two weeks after his sixteenth birthday. It was from his older sister. They shared the same father, which meant their ages were separated not by years, but by a decade and a half. She lived four states over. He had met her four times in person, talked to her once on the phone. Were he ever have to identify her, he couldn't do it by voice or by face. Show him handwriting samples, however, and he could find it in a heartbeat. He had been careless before with her letters. She never said much. (Hello Morgan, How are you? Our father says you've been at camp/studying hard/misbehaving. It's good to hear that/I'm sorry to hear that. The weather out here is fantastic. Maybe if you get a break, you can come out and stay here. Give my love to the family, Barbara.) He would scribble back an equally empty reply, copy the address off the corner of her envelope before tossing it in the nearest waste basket. Two days later she had died of a brain aneurysm. The letter still had been on top of the waste basket, covering the empty soda cans and mangled drafts of English essays. He had tacked it on his wall. It was the closest thing he had to a photograph.

The second letter was from two years later. June 14th, 1998. It was from his first girlfriend. It began with Dearest Morgan, because she was dramatically romantic like that. They had dated seventeen months. They had only seen each other for four of them. The ink was a glittery pink mess that made it difficult to read. It had faded over time, the paper darkening with age. It had been his first break up letter. (Dearest Morgan, I am loathe to report…) He had tacked onto his wall because he was a pissy, bitter teenager who wanted all the world in on his angst. He had needed something to help make life hurt. It drew pity from people (She broke up with you in a letter?), but the longer it stayed up there the stranger it became to people. (Why would you keep that up there? Are you still in love with her?) He had kept it up there because there was a reason he had put it up in the first place, and he had grown superstitious.

The third letter was from December 31st, 1999. It was less of a letter and more of a list him and his friends had drunkenly assembled on New Year's Eve. It was the end of a millennium, new beginnings had to be big. There were a total of eleven resolutions between the group of them on there. He had made three. (Quit smoking. Drink less. Study more.) They were lazy and empty. (The third one had been crossed out and replaced with Fuck more.) They hadn't lasted long. He was so euphoric about surviving Y2K he had to smoke a cigarette (to calm those frayed nerves), wash down another glass of champagne (to celebrate still being alive), and be too fucked up to do anything about his revised resolution. Morgan had failed at a lot of things. His best friend, Nick, had made two. (Complete Lent. Stop cheating at everything.) He completed one and a half of them. (He had given up cheating for lent.) The girl with the grass green eyes had made four. (Exercise more. Study more. Fuck more. Try new things.) He liked to believe she had accomplished at least two of them. Her friend, the one with the hat and the bitter smile had made the last two. (Get new friends. Survive.) She had probably failed the last one. The paper was stained on the edge from someone over pouring the vodka in the shot glass. It was probably the most appropriate stain in the world. (Oh, not quite yet.)

The fourth came three years later. Nearly every piece of mail had arrived electronically. It was dated October 2nd, 2002. It was not addressed to him. It was addressed to his wife. (Dear Mrs. Adrienne Rogers…) It had been from the Publisher's Clearing House. She had not won a million dollars. She had, however, forgotten to buckle her seat belt, and had hit a guard rail the night before. (Too young. Too young to be married. Too young to drink. Too young to die. In limbo, where she stayed. Nothing changed. Nothing aged. She would never be old enough now.) She was still in a coma. He had moved a week later. It was the last piece of mail he had gotten of hers. Most people called this the beginning of his official morbid streak. He had always had it in him.

The fifth was the first to come at his new apartment. (Dear Mr. Rogers, welcome to the neighborhood!) He hadn't given any of his old friends his new address. (Any and all sympathy cards were forwarded to her parent's address.) He no longer received any real mail directed to him. (Just ones that ended with Payment Due: $.) In 2002, electronics had taken over. And snail mail had been edged out by e-mail. He had not the motivation to buy a computer. He had left her laptop at their old apartment. The new renters would inherit a very nice surprise. He kept in it touch with no one.

The sixth was dated today. August 5th, 2003. The paper was bright from birth, and the ink still wet. It was a paragraph long. He had written it himself. (To whomever may discover this,) It was an apology. It was an excuse. But most or least importantly, depending on how a person viewed it, it was a suicide note. A tack had fallen loose. The bottom right corner was speckled with blood.

Were he still alive, he would have revised that to be the most appropriate stain ever.