Dear Mom,

After you died I saw a counselor once. She told me to write to you to get my feelings out and keep you a part of my life. It took me three years, but I'm finally going to give it a try. Maybe it will help me put off losing my mind for a while longer.

I left home a few months ago. I think the only thing keeping dad a semi decent person all those years was you. I won't go into it much, but I guess I'm not as good a person as you because I couldn't take it and I took some of his cash and took the bus to the city. I knew he wouldn't bother looking for me.

The next night after I got into Hathian, it started to storm. And storm and storm. I was in a bar called Lou's when the tornadoes finally ripped through. Most of the businesses were damaged and the city was flooded. Luckily for me this meant a shelter was set up in the school outside the city and I was able to blend in with the storm victims and hide that I was homeless beforehand. I ended up spending most days there helping out. The woman who seemed to be running things is the manager of the burger place, Tre. She was nice and seemed like a good person at the time, but since then I get a much more harsh impression of her and haven't spoken to her often since things got back to normal.

I met a few other people in the shelter who would become regulars in my little life here:

One day a pale blonde guy my age came in, named Lucifer. Something about him scared me, but later that night he came in injured, crying, and I felt something totally different. This unhealthy cycle continued for longer than I'm proud of and, well, things got out of hand with that situation, but it's over now and he seems to be nearly gone from the city, which is for the best I know. But I also know the scar on my side will be a permanent reminder of how foolish I can be.

On the other end of the spectrum I met a man one day who had also just gotten into town around the time of the storm. Nate. He towers so far over me that I was intimidated at first, but that impression couldn't have been any farther off. He has been a good friend to me, which I get the impression he probably is to most everyone, and always seems to appear at my worst moments, for which I am as embarrassed as I am grateful. I hold it together through quite a lot, but for some reason when this guy shows up I turn into the blubbering idiot that I have to keep hidden while I'm taking care of everyone else. It's like I just have to get it all out while I feel like I'm safe for five minutes. Gotta work on that.

And then there was Miho. She wandered in one day, terrified and nearly mute, horribly scarred and injured. I somehow get her to open up to me and after the flood she stayed with me in the motel room I lived in for a while. She would disappear periodically, returning with more injuries. She was hospitalized several times after attempting suicide, a very troubled girl at only 16. I did what I could to look out for her, got her to apply for a job at the comic book store, which she got. Finally things seemed to be looking up for her....she was adopted by one of my co-workers and had a home for once and regular counseling. And then, yesterday.....she finally succeeded in taking her own life. I am still stunned, though I supposed it was somewhat expected, and devastated. This is why I decided to start writing today.

Oh yeah, I got a job. Two actually. One at a coffee place called the Daily Grind and one at a head shop. I put most of my hours in at the DG, and a little while ago I was promoted to assistant manager, which was extremely unexpected to me. But I was very happy to step up. Being dedicated to a job helps keep me out of trouble.

Shortly before I was promoted at work, I was in Lou's one day and next to me was the most pathetic, lonely looking guy, obviously a junkie. He kept looking at me with the most beautifully sad eyes I've ever seen. And, well, you know me....I was drawn in like a moth to flame to this broken person silently crying out for help. He was not using when I met him and we started to spend a lot of time together wandering around the city. He had only recently arrived here from Poland. His accent is adorable. Anyway, within a few days I found him draped over a dumpster in an alley, high. What could I do? I had just found a cheap apartment in a condemned building (I know, I know) so I took him home to take care of him while he detoxed. It's been a few weeks since then. He hasn't used but he's in bad shape. I came home from work the other day to find that he had intentionally cut himself quite badly. It's so hard to watch. I don't know if it's because of the isolated circumstances...but...we have gotten very close. Honestly, I love him. I believe him when he says he loves me. God, I must be insane. At least that's what everyone else thinks. But I know you would understand. You always loved the unlovable and had faith in the most faithless. I got it from you. And I know there is much more to him than the shell that heroin has left visible. I see glimpses of it every day.

Holy shit, I think that's enough for now. I miss you, Mom.

Love,
Charli