❛ 𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃𝐘 𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐒 𝐇𝐎𝐋𝐃 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐊 '𝐂𝐀𝐔𝐒𝐄 𝐖𝐄'𝐋𝐋 𝐍𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐄𝐀𝐑 𝐄𝐀𝐂𝐇 𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐀𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓! ❜
⸻ when the enigmatic boy transforms
the redhead's quiet life into a dangerous
world of freedom, leading her t...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
THE INK GLIDED across the paper at high speed. The words flowed through their mind like rivers of water, and the heart became lighter with each word drawn on the paper.
Never underestimate the power of writing. For them, it was an escape. The only way out. The medium that allowed them to see the light at the end of the tunnel. The mirror of the soul. For years.
SEPTEMBER 2nd, 1990
Dear Lucas,
I'm excited for you to read my letter, but even more excited for you to write back. I desperately need to know how you are doing. And I really need to talk to you. Luckily I have Hunter, but she doesn't know me as well as you do.
Last weekend my mom came to visit me. I felt my floor collapse the moment I saw her looking at me from across the living room. She looked at me with fear, worry, uncertainty, I don't know, a mixture of negative feelings. Now I understand why you don't like visitors.
For me, it's not just the humiliation, but the weight on my shoulders of having let someone down. Of having disappointed my mother, because I don't think any parent raises a child to see them locked up one day. And even though my mother has disappointed me in the past, I don't blame her and I don't want to see her like that and feel like that.
She tried hard to put on a shy, motivating smile, but I could see her tired face. I don't know if it's the alcohol that's killing her, but she looks a lot older than the last time I saw her. I could feel the tension in her shaking hands and voice.
She asked me how I was getting on in here, if I was eating right (she must have noticed I was thinner), and asked me a series of questions about what had happened in the last few months.
She asked me about you. I had to tell her what had happened, about Roy, about burning down the house and running away with you.
I didn't go into too much detail, but there was no point in hiding it. I know she wouldn't spread the word, she's a very private person, I just didn't want to put the burden on her.
Beyond the trivial questions, I could see that I was a source of shame and disgust to my mother, even if she didn't say so. I could tell by her body language that she was afraid. Afraid of her own daughter. As if she didn't recognize me anymore, as if she didn't know who I was.
I wanted so much to be able to say that I was me, the daughter she raised, but she didn't raise me to be like this. Shame, regret, insecurity, and guilt go hand in hand lately. These are feelings that won't leave me. But I know I'll be okay.
