I'm glad we made up. The dress sucks, but I appreciate the thought. And despite my joke yesterday, you are a pretty good parent. You take care of me, and always wanna keep your kid out of danger. You are absolutely a great parent. Also, what do you like so much about that goddamn stupid stetson?
But anyways, you are the best. You took a broken, insecure little girl and helped her grow. When I was younger, I got placed in many home environments that were not good. One in particular is the reason I get so flustered when older people touch me, the way I used to when your first took me in. You never knew then, but I guess you do now.
You are the best parent I've had. I love you, dad.
Love,
Lola
°°°°°°°°°°°°°
I awoke the next morning feeling crampy and bleh. I knew exactly what it was : menstruation.
I had it before, but for some reason it felt even worse now. I didn't wanna get out of bed, so Mr. Scamander literally half-dragged in my pajamas to the truck.
"Does it really hurt that bad?" he asked, looking over, worry etched on his face.
I nodded slowly.
About 30 minutes later, I felt something off. Knowing exactly what happened, I looked down slowly.
I had bled through my pajamas pants.
"Uh, Mr. Scamander?" I said nervously.
He looked over.
"I bled through," I whispered, geaturing down.
He looked down and saw the red stain on my pink pajama pants and nodded sympathetically
"I got it on your seat," I said.
You couldn't see it well, but you could smell it.
"Shoot, sweetie, I'm not worried about that," he said.
"What?"
"I'm worried about you! Are you sure you're feeling okay?"
"Nope."
He pulled into a nearby grocery store.
"Stay put this time," Mr. Scamander said, grinning.
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I managed a weak smile back.
Five minutes later, he came out with a pair of sweatpants, Clorox wipes, pads, and Midol.
"For m'lady," he said, handing them to me.
"I'll be right back," I said, hopping out.
I ran inside with my new items. I put the pads on my underwear, changed into my new sweatpants, and downed the Midol (well, just took the recommonded amount)
I walked outside feeling refrsehed.
Mr. Scamander was wiping my seat down with the Clorox wipes, wiping away all traces of blood.
"I'm backkk," I called, imitating that creepy movie.
He turned around and smiled.
I sat back in the car. I grabbed a stick of gum, promising to be quiet. I then got to work writing my next letter. (I had six so far)
