All I Want Is A Friend

Letter 4 - Aubree

Letter 4

Dear Ramsey,

            I hope you’re reading this. I enjoy writing these letters but I am almost out of years. I could write about my future, but I don’t want to bore you with my hopes and dreams. I think I’m starting this letter from when I was fourteen. Right, right. This is the letter where I begin high school. At this point, Jackson is still my (only) friend. Also at this point, my grandma is very, very sick.

            She died when I was 14, of breast cancer. I cried, and Jackson held me. He even cried when I told him I would have to leave. I landed up moving three or four towns over. My foster parents were okay, at first. I was happy because no one bothered me. They all kind of left me alone. I was the quiet new girl that no one wanted to be seen with, and I was perfectly okay with that. I went back to the way I was before; no friends, no people who hated me. I was actually happy. Jackson and I kept in touch for a while, but soon that faded away.

A year or so later I got my first boyfriend, because I don’t really count Jackson as my boyfriend. But I guess you could. Anyways, my first boyfriend, his name was Kevin, he was awesome. He was sweet and funny. He was, at least, for the first six months. The next few months, he and my foster father began abusing me. I don’t know what happened with Kevin, but my foster father started drinking, which made him abusive. This is the part in my story where things get scary. I started self-harming. I stole my foster father’s razor and sliced, just barely, my hip. It stung, and burned, and hurt, and bled. But I did it again. And again. And again. Until my whole hip was one bloody mess. None of them were nearly deep enough to kill me, but seeing all the blood made me dizzy.

When I reported the abuse, I was taken from that home and put into another, which had two dads. I thought it was going to be great, you know? Gay guys are awesome. Too bad these guys didn’t act gay. They acted like two normal guys who just happened to be living together. My self-harm didn’t stop here. It jumped from my hips to my thighs to my wrists. I was sad again. After that I was placed into another home, then another, and another. I’ve been through so many homes, and have had so many different parent that I can barely remember them all. I think it was Mary and Jake, Luke and Seth, Lauren and Mitch, Jess and Lucas… or something like that.

That’s all for this letter because I want to be able to write you again, even if it is just one more time. I hope you reply soon. Then maybe I can reply to you and we can have a conversation. Or maybe you can do like I did and take me on an adventure through your life? I’m sure it’s much more interesting than mine was. Anyways, I think I have only a few years left, Ramsey.

            Thanks for listening,

                                                Aubree