This letter is part of the development of a recrurring character that appears in some of my stories. However, it does seem to stand on its own as well, so here it is...
Doctor Reinholdt told me I have to write this letter so I am. I feel silly writing to a dead person. I hope you’re enjoying Europe. I miss you and Poppa so much. Eric does too, though he doesn’t like to talk about it.
The doctor keeps bugging me about the year I spent with Uncle Roger and Aunt Steffie. I keep telling him I was six years old, I don’t really remember it. I know they did a lot of stuff to hurt Eric and he cried himself to sleep most nights. It wasn’t until years later that I realized they’d been abusing him, and I don’t mean slapping him around. I’m just glad they never did that stuff to me.
I know you and Poppa never really liked Eric, but we are twins. He says you felt guilty about wanting a girl more than a boy, which is why you didn’t get him birthday or Christmas presents and why you never set him a place at dinner. I think you were just pretending he didn’t exist because he was a pest.
They say dead people can see everything we do, so I don’t see why I have to tell you about growing up. I was never happy in the foster homes and they kept trying to separate me and Eric so there was no way I’d go along with it. I did learn to be really good with locks, though.
Doc Reinholdt is nice but a little strange. He’s my Case Psychologist, assigned by the state to figure out why I don’t like sitting in people’s laps. With all the weirdoes in the world I can’t see why one stupid phobia is so important I get my own shrink.
Wow. I just read what I wrote and it looks like I spent the whole time whining. I should tell you about the best thing in my life – my writing.
It started a couple of years ago. Doc Reinholdt was always asking me if he could talk to Eric. Yeah right, like he needs my permission. But finally he said I should write a journal. I thought it was dumb, so I got Eric to do it for me. He did, too, even though his spelling and penmanship were both awful.
After reading lots of Eric’s writing and trying to make him choose words that didn’t sound like porno, I decided to try writing myself. So I wrote a story about a lost cowboy named Dusty. <strike>He was</strike> It was really fun, <strike>especially when we were kissi.</strike>
So now I’m a writer. Sometimes things get a little crazy around the house, but I’ll have to tell you about that later. I only have one sheet of paper.
I love you Momma, and I love Poppa too. I’d love to write a story where you come back from Europe, but I know you’re really dead so I don’t think that’s possible.