Dear Momma,
I wish you could read this letter. Unfortunately you can't, because it's impossible for it to get to you. I'll keep it here with me, until we meet again. There and then will I give it to you, as my lips won't be able to speak of the deeds written in it.
I'm sure you know what killed me by now. Samantha and I went together for the abortion, but I died and she lived. She came to visit me yesterday saying that she'd changed. I laid in my tomb angry, and vividly aware of the fact that it took my death for her to change.
You should have heard the spoilt brat, ranting about regrets. Regrets? It was she who introduced me to those rich old men. It was she who held my hands and assured me that the abortion would be successful, on the grounds that it wasn't her first time. It was she who said I shouldn't date 'small boys' because, according to her, they had nothing to offer. For a minute then, I had wished it was she who died, not I.
I know you'll think I'm shifting blames. Yes, I'm not in denial. I'm shifting blames because this guilt is too much for me to bear alone. I feel as though I might die of a heart attack. Well, not literally, because I'm already dead, unless I can die again.
Momma, I'm so lonely. I don't know anyone here. I want to come home, but I can't. There's someone in charge of this place, who makes sure that none of us escape. It's a cage where no one can set us free. I'll be here for life. I mean I'll be here for as long as I'm dead.
Read When Money Goes On Vacation
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