You taught me so many things.
You taught me words.
When I was first there, I didn't know any words. But you taught me them.
First it was the simple ones. Mother. Father. Sister. Brother.
I didn't know what I should call you.
"You're stupid," you said, and you ruffled my hair.
You meant that in a nice way. I knew that.
You taught me more words.
Wind. Water. Walls. Ceiling. Room. Laboratory. Science.
I loved you, I think.
I loved you a lot.
I wish you didn't go.
The words you taught me changed. Retribution. Wounds. Stealing. Lies.
I didn't want you to go. You still had so much to teach me.
More dark words. Thievery. Murder. Sin. Hate.
I didn't want you to go, but you did, and I was alone.
The other ones you made were there. I know that there were others. I knew there were others.
I was curious. And so I talked to them.
They were good.
You taught me a word. A word that you said was important.
It's what you said I am.
I want you to come back. We all want you to come back.
We have started the laboratory up again. We know you'll come back. We've started on what you were doing before you left. It's complicated, but we can do it.
Will you please come back?
I miss you.
I want you to teach me more words.