Prologue

Dear stranger,

What makes a bad person?

I mean you don't have to commit crimes or be mean to be a bad person. There has to be more to it than that. It has to be more.

You can be a bad friend.

A bad sibling.

A bad daughter or son.

A bad parent.

You could be a bad person.

But what is it that makes you bad? Is it the negligence? The abuse? Is it what they say or what they do? Or does it run deeper?

When you're doing something, you know you're good at and suddenly you find someone who is better at it, than you, it's...frustrating.

It's frustrating to know that you're surrounded by people who are better than you. At everything. It's frustrating to know that these people are probably good enough and that you're aren't. It's frustrating to know, and see, that those people are loved, by everyone you wished you were loved by. I hate the fact that I want to be them. I hate that people I don't even know, have that kind of power over me. They have the validation that I've always wanted. I hate that.

And I think it's that. That word. Hate. It's such a strong word. I feel as though; hate makes a person do awful things. Things they shouldn't – wouldn't – do. Is that where it starts? Is that where the evil starts? When you hate something with a passion so strong, it overcomes you?

Once I lit a match. I wanted to watch the fire. I watched the fire burn the wood and turn it to ash. It was turning black. I saw wisps of smoke curling between my fingers, as the flames got nearer. I could feel the heat. Before I got burnt, I blew out the fire. And the flame was gone, but that black wood, that ash, still remained.

That's when I had a thought. Maybe that's what happens when you decide to be bad. When you choose to be evil instead of good. When you give up doing good for doing bad.

Maybe when you make that choice, a fire ignites in you. A fire so bright, you can't see anything else. But it's like bliss. Blinding bliss. And you let that fire burn when you continue to be bad. It makes you want to do worse. Because it feels right. It feels like you can finally be seen. But that fire, that flame, it's burning you, to your core. It turns everything black.

Eventually, you extinguish the fire. You don't want it anymore. But you don't know that it might be too late. Your heart, your soul, your mind. It's all gone. It's black. It's ash. It's a part of you now, a part you can't get rid of.

That's what scares me. There isn't an off switch. It's like a red light on a traffic signal. It's red, which means you stop, but then it turns green and you have to go. You have to move.

Bad is what you are in the end. It's what you become. Inside and out. Heart and soul. Mind and matter.

Sometimes, being bad is the only way people will care. It's the only way people will pay attention to anything you have to say. Have you ever thought of it like that?

No. I mean, really. Think about it. Isn't weird that when someone commits a crime, and is deemed a criminal or a bad person, more people care? More people are interested. More people have questions. The more complicated the crime, the more people that will see or listen

But when someone does something good, like making donations or feeding the homeless, people care for a minute then dismiss it. At least, in my experience they do. Whereas, crimes are talked about for years. They are remembered, though infamously. The people who did those things are notoriously known all over the world.

No one remembers the name of the person who made a handsome donation to that one charity, but everyone knows who Jack the Ripper is.

Helping the unprivileged is honorable work. But unless it's something more heroic, like saving someone from a burning building or saving a cruise ship full of people from drowning, then not many people care. Even then, they won't care for long.

All those people that are out there right now, who are being accused of murder, theft, rape, drugs or whatever else. Does anyone really wonder why they did it? Except for the obvious reasons, the ones that everyone sees.

A lot of people deserve to be in jail, rotting for what they did. Their reasons are clear. But there are also a lot of people whose problems, motives, run deeper.

When you do one bad thing, it's hard not to do another.

But bad isn't just killing someone or robbing a bank.

Bad could be being so selfish, you forget about all the people around you, who need you.

Bad could be hurting yourself because the physical pain will distract you from the emotional pain.

Bad could be wanting someone else to feel the exact same way you do, and hurting them just to prove a point.

Bad could be taking drugs because you want to be better. You want to be good enough.

Bad could be starting a rumor or drama, just because you want to be the center of attention.

Bad could be having so many secrets and lies; enough to fill a body bag.

There's more to being bad than meets the eye.

I just realized something. Everything I've written up until this point is an excuse, I think. It's me justifying everything my parents have ever done. Everything they've ignored. And then some. Maybe they hate each other – and their children – that much. I'm also justifying the hate that I have for myself, by saying that maybe I can't help it. Maybe that's why I haven't been a good person. But I don't think that's why. I don't really know why.

In the end, it all really comes down to this: Are people naturally good or evil?

Why are wars remembered? During war, are people being good or evil? I mean, they're defending their country, their homeland, so that's good, but at what cost? They're killing people to do it, so isn't considered evil, when anyone else does it? Why not then?

I don't really know the answer to any of these questions. I don't know. But I feel like when you're born, you're innocent. That doesn't mean you're good or bad. You just haven't done anything. You're pure.

Have you heard the saying, 'The weapon isn't evil, the wielder is'?

It's true. A knife or a gun, neither are made to kill, but they're used for that. People use them for evil.

I feel like for us, for humans, our choices are the weapon, our minds it's wielder. We choose our own paths. We make our own decisions. To be good or to be bad.

But still, I don't think there is any real answer to whether people are naturally good or evil. I guess it's just another mystery unsolved. Another question left unanswered.

It's funny. I'm writing this letter for no one really. Not even me. If someone finds it, it's probably going to be a stranger because there is no way in hell, I'm going to let anyone close to me read this.

I'd want it to be a stranger, someone I'm never going to see or meet. It's funny because a stranger is going to read this and know more about me, than people I've known my whole life do.

I'm going to hide this, where someone can find it. Someone has to read this. There's a park near my house. It's close by and there's this park bench in a secluded corner, overlooking the entire park and the little café bookstore across the street. Next to it, there's this big oak tree. If you go closer to it, you can see a hole. That's where I'll put the letter. If someone sees it, then that place probably means something to them...as well. It means something to me. I go there, sit on the bench and just stare at all the people in the park. I watch them and the cars on the street. I watch people smile and laugh. Hold hands. I watch little kids fall down and then stand back up again. I watch them run around in their own small worlds, that seem so big. I watch them be happy.

I want that.

Anyway. If someone actually finds this letter, then I want you to do something for me. Read the letter, remember it, and put it back. Put it back where you found it. Give someone else the chance to read it. Even if you think I'm crazy. Someone else might not. And remember this letter. Who knows, someday it might come in handy. It might inspire you. To, I don't know, be better. I don't know how, when or where that'll happen, but it might. So, do me that one favor, will you?

If you did that, thank you. If you didn't, then OK. It's not like I'll know.

Now, I'm going to go hide this, forget about it and go back to my life, even though I don't want to. Maybe one day, I'll write another letter.

Damn you, one day.

Sincerely, (not really)

- Lydia Marshall

~ ~ ~

Lydia signed off the letter with her name, folded it up and put it in an envelope. On the outside, she wrote, 'Dear stranger, read it. If you want.'

Then she put it in her bag. She was going to put it in the tree, the next day after she finished packing for her annual camping trip.

Little did she know, that letter wasn't going anywhere. Neither was she.