A letter from Josephine to Rosie.
November 7, 2003
I have written to several people but they never replied. I have figured out that maybe they weren't interested in anything I said at all. How pathetic I must sound to them, and how helpless I may seem. They could have looked at the letter and never finished a single one, because you must know I write unremittingly unless propelled to take an evening shower. They would never understand, I guess. Never.
But you do, don't you? You know you do. I have been wishing for someone like you all my life. I had questions that were discreetly answered, if not answered at all. But I'm sick of the edits, the lies and the misery of not knowing anything. Why were they playing deaf? Did I not deserve to know? I spent all my life with her, and they could not tell me what had happened to her. I was hers, she was mine. Why don't they explain things to me?
You might point out to me that I am just fourteen and I would not understand a thing. But I do, you don't know how much I do. I do. I do..
If you answer me like everyone always did, I would not write to you again. Though, I know you are not like the others. I know you aren't. Because if you were just like them, I wouldn't have came to you for advice. You may not know this, but we are so much alike. We are the same in some ways. You do not know now because you cannot see me. You will. Just wait.