![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
3rdragonSince apparently left-handed in-character letters are just something I do.
February 14, 2008
Dear Laurea,
Elizabeth gave me this letter yesterday and asked me to send it to you. I told her I would. I guess what I really meant was, “I’ll try,” because I don’t know if this will get to you, don’t know if the hospital will give it to you, don’t know if mother will let it get to you, don’t know if you’re well enough to read it even if they do.
I tried to visit you last week. Not with the parents, or with Elizabeth, just by myself, after school. I told mother that I was going to Lucy Murton’s to study for Quiz Bowl, because I know mother wouldn’t stoop to checking with her parents. Maybe I shouldn’t have written that, not knowing where this is going to end up. I’m going to leave it, anyway. I sat there for hours, with nurses and doctors and other people hurrying past, with everybody ignoring me or giving evasive answers to any questions I asked, and reading Antigone for school. It really is an awful book, you know, with Antigone walled up in a cave to starve to death just because she wants to bury her brother’s body.
I feel a lot like Antigone, sometimes. They’d have to tell me if you were dead, right? Someone would have to tell me, sometime. And mother would stop going off to meet with expensive doctors, and wouldn’t leave me sitting in the waiting room for hours while she marched off to talk to people.
It’s hard to write when I don’t know who will be reading this. Like a message in a bottle, almost, but a bottle I’m trying to send to you. That is, you, Laurea, my sister. Not you, the reader, if you’re someone who isn’t Laurea. Anyway.
I don’t really know what to say. Feel better? Elizabeth covered that one already, and it would feel, I don’t know, more useful somehow if I actually knew what was wrong. I wish someone would tell me, that for five minutes someone would stop treating me like a kid. I’m only 15, yeah, but that’s old enough to notice stuff going on. Heck, Elizabeth is old enough to notice that stuff is going on. And hey, while I’m wishing, I wish that I could talk to you, and have you tell me that you’re okay, have you tell me that everything’s okay.
That’s a rotten way to end a letter, especially a get-well card. Maybe I should end with some cheerful, pointless anecdote about something that went on at school. I can’t really think of any, though. This whole thing is a pretty sorry excuse for a get-well card, actually. Sorry.
Feel better and come home soon; I miss you.
Alex
February 14, 2008
Dear Laurea,
Elizabeth gave me this letter yesterday and asked me to send it to you. I told her I would. I guess what I really meant was, “I’ll try,” because I don’t know if this will get to you, don’t know if the hospital will give it to you, don’t know if mother will let it get to you, don’t know if you’re well enough to read it even if they do.
I tried to visit you last week. Not with the parents, or with Elizabeth, just by myself, after school. I told mother that I was going to Lucy Murton’s to study for Quiz Bowl, because I know mother wouldn’t stoop to checking with her parents. Maybe I shouldn’t have written that, not knowing where this is going to end up. I’m going to leave it, anyway. I sat there for hours, with nurses and doctors and other people hurrying past, with everybody ignoring me or giving evasive answers to any questions I asked, and reading Antigone for school. It really is an awful book, you know, with Antigone walled up in a cave to starve to death just because she wants to bury her brother’s body.
I feel a lot like Antigone, sometimes. They’d have to tell me if you were dead, right? Someone would have to tell me, sometime. And mother would stop going off to meet with expensive doctors, and wouldn’t leave me sitting in the waiting room for hours while she marched off to talk to people.
It’s hard to write when I don’t know who will be reading this. Like a message in a bottle, almost, but a bottle I’m trying to send to you. That is, you, Laurea, my sister. Not you, the reader, if you’re someone who isn’t Laurea. Anyway.
I don’t really know what to say. Feel better? Elizabeth covered that one already, and it would feel, I don’t know, more useful somehow if I actually knew what was wrong. I wish someone would tell me, that for five minutes someone would stop treating me like a kid. I’m only 15, yeah, but that’s old enough to notice stuff going on. Heck, Elizabeth is old enough to notice that stuff is going on. And hey, while I’m wishing, I wish that I could talk to you, and have you tell me that you’re okay, have you tell me that everything’s okay.
That’s a rotten way to end a letter, especially a get-well card. Maybe I should end with some cheerful, pointless anecdote about something that went on at school. I can’t really think of any, though. This whole thing is a pretty sorry excuse for a get-well card, actually. Sorry.
Feel better and come home soon; I miss you.
Alex
