Prompt (31): the right place for love (a line taken from the Robert Frost poem Birches, I thought you might like to know, I love that poem, I did not tell you before in prompting, so I would not push your mind in a certain direction. I hope that was alright.)
Character: I think in this case it improves the read to not instantly know. I'd love to know your thoughts on that :)
Words: 655
To whom it may concern,
Because I really don't know anymore who will care – care about me, ... in the end. This is not the right place for love. It's all I really know. I can't anymore, can't see me, can't hold on, and I ... I wish I could, but I can't move forward, can't move most days ... at all.
Not knowing yourself, not knowing myself enough to ever want anything enough to really fight. I can't fight, I don't know what for. I ... I can't.
And it's not like people don't care at all about me, just, just, no one has ever cared enough when I needed them. And now, now I don't know how to care anymore.
They make, people in my life make everything such a big deal, the tiniest things are blown so out of proportion, they have twisted my insides and I don't know how to untangle them. I get panic attacks some days trying to choose a shirt to wear. Because they have made me believe it, I cannot not believe it anymore, it has nothing to do with reason either, not anymore, all I can think, all I can feel is, I am wrong. Whatever I choose whatever I do, it is the only thing they have taught me about me, it's all I am to them, wrong. Wrong by nature, I guess, I cannot believe they ever wanted me. I ... I just can't. And they are all I have, and they don't want me, not me.
This is not the right place for love. Do not get me wrong, please, not you too, whoever, whenever you are reading this. I need to hold on to the thought that I left something of me in this world, of me, not what they had turned me into. More than anything I wish it was, I wish it so much as could be, I could be a place of love ... and it is not, that house I grew up in, ... and I am not.
The truth is, my truth is, ... anywhere they are I cannot be. And they are everywhere, all inside me, always with me, part of me. And that will never change, and I will never be enough, not for them, not for me. I am twisted.
All I am left with is wishing, all I have been left with for years. It is not enough anymore. I am not, and I will never be, not enough, never enough of me.
Family is supposed to be a place for love, the place of love. Right? Right?
All my family does is make it impossible for me to breathe, make it impossible for me to think ... about anything. All the talking my parents do, all the shouting, all it does is tear up my insides, and then ball them up in my chest, compress them with my blood and guts deep into my chest. To them I am like a car on a scrapyard, a thing made out of not all individually dysfunctional parts, but all of them put together utterly useless, junk.
Maybe I am not to them like that at all, but how can that even still matter if it is how they make me feel, like a thing that is, when looked at in all the parts making it up, utterly useless, scrap, waste, junk – there to, at best, be torn apart for parts still wanted by somone. It is what they have been doing to me for years anyway.
I am done being made to feel like the scrapyard for their junk.
I am done being junk, too.
I am done being.
I am done.
I wish to leave love more than anything, to someone, ... anyone. I wish I had love to have and to give. It is all I ever wanted. I don't.
Lucy Quinn
A/N: Just FYI, should you be interested, I am turning this one-shot into a two-shot, or so, to give some of the context I think this letter was written and is read in, and by whom. :)M
To my fellow writers: I am SO SORRY I am still behind on reviewing your work. My internet still comes and goes as it pleases. I haven't been home the last weeks, but I will get back there in a couple of days and the internet connection should be just fine again then, and latest then I will make up for it, hopefully even before.