Status: For a contest.
Letters to No One
August 28, 2010
Dear Humphrey,
My mom found all of those letters I wrote to you so long ago. Well, I guess it wasn’t really that long. Only a few months. But anyway, she found them somewhere around mid-June, and I explained all about you when she asked who Humphrey was. Then she asked if you were a real person, and I told her that you went to my school.
Apparently, I really did believe that you were real.
After, she sent me to a psychologist, fearing that I was schizophrenic or something. I don’t know what the hell was wrong with me, but I did learn a few things.
First of all, you’re not real. I don’t even know why I’m writing this letter to you if I know you’re not real--I guess it’s just to offer myself some closure.
Second, I realize now that all of the things I blamed you for--well, you weren’t exactly there to have caused those problems in the first place. As it turns out, everything that I thought I saw you doing, it was all me, either directly or indirectly. It was my entire fault in some way or another, and I blacked out the memories of myself doing those things and replaced them with memories of you doing them. I’d apologize for blaming everything on you, but that would be kind of hard to do considering the fact that you’re not real.
Look at me. I’m kind of pathetic. I keep repeating that you’re not real out of fear that if I don’t, I’ll start believing in you again.
The house--that was all me. I still don’t know how exactly it happened, but it was definitely me. The police somehow found evidence that it was me, but I don’t know what it was because I don’t understand anything related to forensics whatsoever. They let me off for temporary insanity or something like that. I’m not really sure. I was still in kind of a daze during the trial.
For a long time I felt excruciatingly guilty about it, but my psychologist somehow got it into my head that it wasn’t my fault because I didn’t know what I was doing. I don’t know, but she explained it really well. Sometimes in the middle of the night I’ll still feel sharp pangs of guilt in my stomach, but they’ve become fewer and farther between as of late.
And for a long time I thought I was totally nuts. But thanks to Anne--that’s my psychologist’s name--thanks to her, I’ve realized that I’m not totally nuts after all. I’m just a bit bananas.
In the end, I was only writing letters to no one.
Sincerely,
Rebecca
P. S. ...I’m still mad at you for my hat.
My mom found all of those letters I wrote to you so long ago. Well, I guess it wasn’t really that long. Only a few months. But anyway, she found them somewhere around mid-June, and I explained all about you when she asked who Humphrey was. Then she asked if you were a real person, and I told her that you went to my school.
Apparently, I really did believe that you were real.
After, she sent me to a psychologist, fearing that I was schizophrenic or something. I don’t know what the hell was wrong with me, but I did learn a few things.
First of all, you’re not real. I don’t even know why I’m writing this letter to you if I know you’re not real--I guess it’s just to offer myself some closure.
Second, I realize now that all of the things I blamed you for--well, you weren’t exactly there to have caused those problems in the first place. As it turns out, everything that I thought I saw you doing, it was all me, either directly or indirectly. It was my entire fault in some way or another, and I blacked out the memories of myself doing those things and replaced them with memories of you doing them. I’d apologize for blaming everything on you, but that would be kind of hard to do considering the fact that you’re not real.
Look at me. I’m kind of pathetic. I keep repeating that you’re not real out of fear that if I don’t, I’ll start believing in you again.
The house--that was all me. I still don’t know how exactly it happened, but it was definitely me. The police somehow found evidence that it was me, but I don’t know what it was because I don’t understand anything related to forensics whatsoever. They let me off for temporary insanity or something like that. I’m not really sure. I was still in kind of a daze during the trial.
For a long time I felt excruciatingly guilty about it, but my psychologist somehow got it into my head that it wasn’t my fault because I didn’t know what I was doing. I don’t know, but she explained it really well. Sometimes in the middle of the night I’ll still feel sharp pangs of guilt in my stomach, but they’ve become fewer and farther between as of late.
And for a long time I thought I was totally nuts. But thanks to Anne--that’s my psychologist’s name--thanks to her, I’ve realized that I’m not totally nuts after all. I’m just a bit bananas.
In the end, I was only writing letters to no one.
Sincerely,
Rebecca
P. S. ...I’m still mad at you for my hat.
♠ ♠ ♠
THE END.This was most certainly NOT the most spectacular thing I've ever written, and it was not meant to be. Look no further for deep, hidden meaning, because there is none. The purpose of this was to make the reader chuckle a bit, giggle a little, and smile a lot. If it did that to you, well... mission accomplished.
Anyway, I hope you liked this crazy story. Thanks for taking the time to read it. xD