Underneath the bed of Vivianna Varnes, there was a ball. A ball of parchment. The parchment had not always been that way, it had once been neatly rolled. But it had been unrolled for a girl to write a letter. A letter that was written in grief, crumpled in anger, and then cast away during a fit of uncontrollable sobs. If one were to look at the letter, it would read something like this:
Dearest Bertie,
I know that you won't ever read this, but I'd like to pretend that you can. I'm in the clock tower, it seemed fitting. I never quite understood why you liked it so much up here, but I think I'm starting to get it. It's so quiet, so peaceful. The perfect place to write. But you'd know that, wouldn't you? I don't know what to do anymore Bertie. There's no one to tell me when I'm being stupid, or to steal my candy, or to put up with me on my bad days. You're gone.
What about that novel, Bertie? The novel that you said you'd write and dedicate to me? Or what about that autobiography you said you'd write once you were a famous author? You know, the one where you said you'd write a whole chapter just on me? And what about Snidget? You know that toad never liked anyone but you. I haven't even seen the thing in days.
I'm crying Bertie, I'm crying a lot. It feels like that's all I ever do these days. I miss you Bertie. And I love you, so much. I didn't say that enough.
Wherever you are, I hope they have books.
Forever your sister,
Vivianna
by Vivianna Varnes Mon Nov 04, 2013 12:16 am
