Friday, February 26, 2016

"Dear Eliza" - A short story by 16-year-old me

Another one! My English teacher, Mrs Curtis (who I’ve mentioned before), wrote at the bottom of this one: “You had fun writing this Annelise!” (She didnt use a comma before my name. This is concerning.)

I wonder, do high school teachers psychoanalyse students as they read their work? Surely they do! How could they not?

from here
Dear Eliza,

I suppose you are a bit surprised to get a letter from me after all these years. How long has it been since we both met at Channon Primary School? About 20 years? I hear you’ve recently lost your wonderful job and divorced your fantastic looking husband, Craig. You were always in love with him, weren’t you, even in year 2. How humiliating to have your husband being so unfaithful.

I wish I could feel some kind of pity for you in this situation, Eliza, but I can’t. You were the one who made my life so awful when I was 7, Eliza, and I cannot seem to forgive you for that. I remember those times well – I still have nightmares about them.

Remember that time when you stole my cake, Eliza? MY MORNIGN TEA?? I loved chocolate cake. Now I can’t even think about it without those painful memories of eyou eating the whole thing in front of me, you licking the frosting off the gladwrap. It was that day that I swore to myself that one day I would get my revenge on you.

And do you remember the time when you told Mr Lawson that I had pulled your hair and I had to sit and write 1000 lines all afternoon.

“I will not be mean to my fellow classmates”

“I will not be mean to my fellow classmates”

Sometimes I wake myself up screaming that line.

I shiver when I think of the name you used to call me: Beryl the feral. I changed my name to try to forget about it, but the memories, Eliza, they are engraved in my brain.

The list of heartless, awful things that you put me through could go on- when you laughed so hard after I was hit in the head with the cricket ball, when you cut my hair at the back so that when I got it evened my hair was only two inches long. The torture didn’t stop until I changed schools in year 3.

My psychiatrist told me that writing down my feelings could help in releasing some of the anger and hate that I’ve built up over the years. 20 years, four months and thirteen days of anger and hate, and all because of you.

You are a cruel bitch, Eliza, and I hate you. I’ve just wanted to say that for so long.
Well, the doctor was right, I’m feeling much better. Perhaps he can decrease my medication now.

Anyway, I hope your life continues to go downhill. Maybe we’ll meet again, when you have to join me in this place.

From Beulah

P.S. The splotches on the paper are real blood.


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