Dear Edmund:
I should have known, really. That you cared. Looking back now I can see that you care so much more about others than you do about yourself.
I remember once, Abby and you were talking. And I was listening. I didn't really mean to, but I did, it is inevitable, for a silent girl like me.
And you were making small talk, the comfortable kind, the one that happens between friends. And it sounded similar to a small, distracted game of would you rather. "So" started Abby, turning more comfortably in her seat "would you rather watch a female friend get her fingers cut off, or sacrifice yourself and die" my pencil stopped scratching paper, the incomplete drawing staring back at me, my breathing stopped, this time I could help it, but I wanted to listen.
"I'd rather die" and I know it had felt like an eternity, but in reality you didn't miss a beat Edmund, when answering the question. You said it without a doubt, and you even sat a bit straighter in your seat.
And I was scared, Edmund. I don't even know why but I was scared. For you or of death or of your conviction or for the poor girl getting her fingers cut off.
Maybe I was scared of the image, the picture it painted, The torture room and the knives and you giving your life away, not even for your girlfriend, or your family. Just a simple scared girl. Someone like me.
Maybe I was scared because I didn't deserve that. Because Edmund, I don't.
YOU ARE READING
Letters to Edmund
Non-Fiction"Letters to you, even though you'll never get them" (This book is like a diary for me, everything that happens actually happens for real, so please respect my work and the characters because they are real people)
