Dear You: Sincerely, Me
Dear Me
Ann picked up two letters from her desk after her Creative Writing class left. She brushed her blonde hair aside and sighed. She didn't have the energy anymore. Not after he showed back up. He wanted to get to know Adabella. Apparently he'd turned around, Ann recalled. She wanted him to drop dead. It was that simple. She sat on a desk, crossing her legs under her and began to read.
Dear Me,
I'm sick of this. Tomorrow, I keep on saying, I'll quit. I'll put down that fucking razor and the only time I'll meet you again is when I shave next. But I just can't do that. I'm tired of taking a shower and I see all these scars marking up my huge hips, my bruised legs, my disgusting arms. I hate you, me. Just looking in the mirror brings me to tears. I just can't see how I once had the best guy in the world. I'm so ugly.
I woke up this morning in another guy's bed. Another. This is the third time this week. I snuck out early so he wouldn't see how ugly I am when he's sober. Maybe I should just become a prostitute, because obviously, that's all I'm good for. I'm like a fucking sex toy you buy at Lover's Lane for 15 dollars. I used to ask Mom how much I was worth, and she would lie and tell me I was priceless. Now I can see how much I'm really worth - 15 bucks.
I don't know what to do. I'm broken. I'm used up. I wish that the scars and bruises would go away. You know that one on my shoulder that's pretty huge? That mark? It just makes me remember what being raped feels like. I think I'm pregnant.
If only I wasn't a strict Christian, then maybe I would get an abortion. Maybe I could keep one less hideous kid from committing suicide because people made fun of them. But I'm not going to. I'm going to have the kid even though every time I see it I'll be reminded of every excruciating detail of what happened two nights ago.
I wish that I wasn't me. I wish that I was an actual person. I wish. Is that all I can say?
I wish I was dead.
From,
Me.
Ann shuddered and set the letter aside. She knew that one was bad. But she felt like she wasn't over with the bad yet. She feared that it'd only gonna get worse. She had no idea how right she was.
Dear Me,
I'm sick of this. Tomorrow, I keep on saying, I'll quit. I'll put down that fucking razor and the only time I'll meet you again is when I shave next. But I just can't do that. I'm tired of taking a shower and I see all these scars marking up my huge hips, my bruised legs, my disgusting arms. I hate you, me. Just looking in the mirror brings me to tears. I just can't see how I once had the best guy in the world. I'm so ugly.
I woke up this morning in another guy's bed. Another. This is the third time this week. I snuck out early so he wouldn't see how ugly I am when he's sober. Maybe I should just become a prostitute, because obviously, that's all I'm good for. I'm like a fucking sex toy you buy at Lover's Lane for 15 dollars. I used to ask Mom how much I was worth, and she would lie and tell me I was priceless. Now I can see how much I'm really worth - 15 bucks.
I don't know what to do. I'm broken. I'm used up. I wish that the scars and bruises would go away. You know that one on my shoulder that's pretty huge? That mark? It just makes me remember what being raped feels like. I think I'm pregnant.
If only I wasn't a strict Christian, then maybe I would get an abortion. Maybe I could keep one less hideous kid from committing suicide because people made fun of them. But I'm not going to. I'm going to have the kid even though every time I see it I'll be reminded of every excruciating detail of what happened two nights ago.
I wish that I wasn't me. I wish that I was an actual person. I wish. Is that all I can say?
I wish I was dead.
From,
Me.
Ann shuddered and set the letter aside. She knew that one was bad. But she felt like she wasn't over with the bad yet. She feared that it'd only gonna get worse. She had no idea how right she was.