A for Ashes

Hey, Marg.
I turned 18 yesterday. And like always, here's my eighth letter to you-just like you told me to do when I was ten, right before you left.

Oh, and Marg? You're a bitch.

I thought you'd show up for me when I turned fourteen.
But I'm still waiting, Marg.

Guess what? The orphanage kicked me out way too early.

I lived in a fucking boxed apartment, Marg.

If I wanted to take a decent shower, I had to walk all the way across the street from my shabby building to the public restrooms.

They didn't even have showers, Marg. Just a broken sink in the corner. I used its hose just to wash myself. That's what a shower is for me.

I was fourteen, Marg.
Kicked out at that age, and still managed to survive.

And school?
It wasn't easy, Marg.
You promised it would be my only shot at happiness.

It wasn't.

But maybe I kept writing to you-whether you read these or not-because I need to get these thoughts out of my head.

I'm this close to killing two people who were supposed to be better than you.

Strangely, I don't seem to hate you as much as I hate them.

Maybe because I never got the chance to really know you, Marg.

Thanks for nothing.

-Mona

.-.-.