elizabeth's hatbox

seventeen;

allan,

first off, notice the absence of the word 'dear' before your name. a month or so ago, i'd have myself executed if i had somehow forgotten to put the word 'dear' before your name at the beginning of a letter. now, at this spot, given what's happening, i'm bound to do what i'm doing, because get this, allan:

me thinking you were dear to me? illusions. pieces of me hallucinating haplessly, with your help, of course.

it was necessary, wasn't it, mildred? watching bit by bit of me falling for you, relentlessly hatching some other vicious plot and scheme i had never stopped to think of once. plots and schemes ruling my well-being out completely. ruining my pride, destroying the way i had my head held high at all times. doing it all with a single lie. a secondhand, used canvas in which you had painted pictures of loving me.

and i believed you. and all of that, every single moment we spent together was an insult hurled at my face after you had done what you had so flawlessly, spectacularly, ruthlessly done. i helped you, so it would be wrong to dump the blame on you completely. but who'd care about my wrongs and rights, now that i'm known as nothing but a desperate whore who sold herself off at the age of barely sixteen by luring allan mildred to her traps and shit and getting what she wanted and then throwing him away.

i could prove it to them, you see, allan. that i was innocent. that their pretty little 'hester' signs were but wasted ink. but i didn't. i didn't because i knew i hadn't a lot of time left and in that little period, i would do what was right, no matter what they said to me.

i think you might know breigh saintcroix. freshman. the founder's granddaughter. she might've been three years less of age than i am, but for some reason, she put up a sad smile today, walked up to me and said that something in my face told her that i had done absolutely nothing wrong and absolutely nothing sinful, and that if she needed a friend she could provide me with one.

but i brushed her off. roughly. you know what i said?

"you just want a bit of popularity, don't you? i'm the hoe, with all the men in tow. you can't fit in with that."

not me. not me at all. and i regret what i did. i regret being the reason behind the hurt expression that had etched itself on her beautiful features. she wasn't looking for popularity; she was looking for a friend, like i was. because she, too, was hurting. like i was.

and so i've decided to apologize to her. but i doubt she'll be interested in speaking to the stupid piece of shit that i am.

speaking of shit, have you heard what jesse, my said best friend, has been spreading about me? that i'd been with joey this, michael that, this doe and that doe. people believe her and my life is wonderful.

too wonderful to be endured, way too wonderful to be lived.

i'll see you around, mildred. always remember the times we had shared, the ones i had cherished and you had laughed at behind my back. and always, always remember that someday or the other, something or someone will get back at you.

lots and lots of hate,

elizabeth.

dear noah,

i'll never, ever forget adding a dear before your name in my letters to you from now on, even though i wonder if you ever will receive another letter from me because you are dead and deep down, i am too.

i'm sorry, but i've two valid reasons for behaving that way:

one, allan is the allan, the one i had read about in liz's letter to you. the one who'd been the cause of a death. the one who used me as well. the one, the one.

and two, the horrifying two, because of the slight splattering of elizabeth bartender's dried blood that designed the egde of the letter.

not something that we're likely to call delightful.