( Email to Lettie. )

Hey.

Whoever blew up the Dean's car should come forward and admit it, because I think it's absolute bunk for the rest of us to be punished because you guys think you're cute.

What assholes. Some of us actually like school, some of us actually LIKE being involved, and you bastards just ruined it for everybody.

Way to go.


And Alfric? FUCK YOU TOO. We're not some disenfranchised proletariat, and you are not some ultimately fucked-up version of Big Brother.


(Detention, I embrace thee.)

Private.

Why won't it go away and leave me alone. Why. Why is it staying in my body like some glorious disease, sick on sin, but I don't know if it was a sin because it curled around inside me like good coffee and cinnamon buns and when I think of it, it feels like a faraway Christmastime. A ripple inside me that makes my spine feel cold, then warm, then melt away altogether.

I hardly knew his name. I hardly know mine anymore.

I'm made of betrayal.

Hold me.


there's just one thing that I need to say
before I close my eyes and walk away
there's just one thing that I need to feel
before I walk away against my will

there's just one thing that I need to hear
before I walk away for the last time
there's just one thing that I need to see
before I take this chance and set us free

don't forget me
don't regret me
don't suspect me
don't neglect me

the memory of this still reminds me of you
the memory of this still reminds
the memory of this still reminds me of you
and that is where you'll find me

( Email to Emilio. )

To: esalgari@euphemewebmail.net
From: lmontgomery@euphemewebmail.net
Subject: A Few Days


Emilio,

I'm going home for the weekend. Maybe longer. I just... in case you wanted to reach me. I'll be on my cell. Or you can email me, or Larissa, or...

I'll just be at home. I... I'm not running away. I'm trying to give you space.

Please... don't. Leave, I mean. God, I can't be writing letters.

I fucking miss you. And you don't owe me anything. I just wish. God, I miss you.


-Lucy.

(Private)

On the way out of town, past the woods, there's a little bed and breakfast in a Victorian house. I remember that it's covered in roses in the summertime, but it's not summertime now and the vines are just a tangle on the walls of the house. It's still sweet and pretty with its yellow paint and white trim, and the wraparound porch is covered in snow. It's a house meant for spring and summer, but it's winter and I'm here.

There are four thousand nine hundred and forty-two roses on the wallpaper in this room and I kissed Marlowe and I wanted to. I tipped my head back and I kissed him and I think he just let me, I don't think he wanted it.

Oh my God, I've never felt so stupid in my entire life. What a waste for just twenty seconds of what I wanted, and I don't even know why I did. I hardly know his name.

And I went upstairs and packed a suitcase and came here, because if Emi tapped on my window he would have seen it on my face that I'd done something all wrong and I wouldn't have been able to say the right things.

I don't know if I ever can.

Oh, God, oh, God, why didn't I know this two weeks ago when he needed it?

I'm going to lose him. He's never going to forgive me, and I'm going to lose him.

I love him and I'm going to lose him.

Four thousand nine hundred and forty-three. Fourty-four. Fourty-five.

I could count here forever if it meant I never have to tell him what I did and how little it ended up meaning.

All right, if you don't have your articles in for the paper, get them in. It's going into its first edition a week from Monday, and I'll be tracking you all down and opening your brains.

I'm a workaholic. I know it. I've been pulling double shifts at the Round Table-- if anyone wants a job, we're so understaffed I think we'd hire a primate-- and working late on the newspaper. Still thinking about the play.

And I think I'm getting sick again... but I can't think like that. Thinking positive wards off viruses. It's not medically proven or anything. But it's... look, it's all I've got right now, okay?

I just think I'm running myself ragged. I'm exhausted... cranky, even. I'm not acting like myself. It's like I can't quite think clearly and I've been having weird dreams. (Not like WEIRD weird dreams, not like... those kind people were having a few months back... but weird ones nonetheless).

I feel awful for anyone who has to deal with me.

Having a sick boyfriend has got to be the most guilt-inducing activity anyone ever created. I feel awful leaving him for even ten seconds, even if he's been chipper as can be about it all (while turning his stomach inside out inside his mouth, it's acrobatic and disgusting, you really ought to stop by and see it-- twenty bucks a pop for the Astounding Stomach Flip, Yours Will Do One Too!).

I've been trying to spend as much time with him as possible, when I'm not at work or in the newspaper office. If you want the truth, I'm exhausted; I put my head down for two seconds and fell completely asleep in class the other day. I'm fairly sure I still have my chemistry notes imprinted on my forehead.

So that's where I've been. I know you're all completely deprived of my enlightened presence and all that absolute bull, but try to save it, will you?

(On top of this, I am thinking of auditioning for the school play. Hey. It would be fun.)

( Email to Larissa. )

( Email to Larissa. )