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Melodrama ..
I have until eight, I should think. I have sat here, growing ever more morose, since exactly four. It is now seven forty-eight. Why do I sit here? I am waiting for my lover, of course. He is a demon, an angel, and he holds my heart alone. For these last few days, sad days, I have only seen him in sparse, desperate, dreadful moments. I have only spoken in ardent, pained bursts. Today he has not come at all. Though I am only thirteen, I feel that I am beginning to experience the common pain of the young wife who sits at home, with her pots and pans, her broom and mop, and stares at the inhospitable clock. She who sits with her red-rimmed eyes, her grayish, porcelain cheeks, her dishevled, burnished copper hair, Forever waiting. When mine comes to me, will he be as tired and as silent, as grim and used as all the others? I don't believe it. All the while in which I wait, Mother encirles me, forever inquiring as to why my grades slip as they do. I do not know, leave me be. I gaze upon her with a still face, and being without expresion truly does aid me ... and at this Middle School that I do not apply myself in, I met the maiden that may very well effect the salvation of my feverish mind. Since she is blonde, vapid, vacuous, and stupid .. I fear for myself. "You'll take my letter, and put it into his hands? Tim Hopson's very hands?" I asked. Brittany Villa fixed me with a strange expression, denoting that that the question I had just asked was as moronic as if I'd just inquired as to whether her Father was a homosexual. "Duh," she said. I went wild with rapture in my mind, but not my face. My eyes widened further. "And when you see him, you will copy down the address of his place of torture, for me?" Brittany gave her half-hearted sigh of disgust. "Yeah, I will." I bowed, which thoroughly cemented her notions of my being a freak, and ran off. Since then I have deliberately quashed my elation. This pudgy idiot is my only hope, and considering that, I have little to expect. Beyond all of that, my letter may never be answered, if it does indeed reach its destination. I doubt I shall ever bear word of my lost child. And it cannot be helped, is it not so? Whatever the answer may be, my time is spent. Fare ye well, onlookers.
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