DAMNED: A Letter to Brian Moriarty
Jan. 31st, 2012 01:23 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
threepwood[This letter is written on fancy government stationary, though the name of the town/city has been mysteriously blacked out. Written in Elaine's trademark professional cursive. It smells faintly of perfume.]
Dear Brian,
My mother advised against writing to you. I felt, however, that in spite of your incessant stalking, your rampant kleptomania, and your bizarre obsession with manatees, that you're a decent enough guy that I can't simply brush you off without an explanation. One cannot share hallucinations with another person and then not feel some kind of connection with that person afterward, I feel.
In any case, I am writing to you to let you know that I'm well. I took well-deserved rest and relaxation at my parents' estate after my release from Landel's, and I should be ready to take back my job very soon. Good thing, too; those health violation notices aren't going to sign themselves. One thing I've noticed since I left, though, is that it's been oddly [pen rested here] quiet without you around. I'm still getting used to looking over my shoulder and not seeing you standing there with your hand somewhere it doesn't belong. Or looking at me with some kind of dopey smile. I can even say I miss talking to you — even the crazed piratical conversations where you were from the future and we were married somehow. They were sweet in their own preposterous way.
That said, I do hope you are able to see reason soon, Bri. It would be nice to meet you as a reformed, sane man. If you were a man like that, I might consider letting you buy me a root beer sometime. As it stands now, though, I don't see any room for someone like you in my life, sweet as you are. I'm sorry, but you're just not worth the stress.
So please, I urge you: let the staff there help you; get a better lawyer (I wouldn't trust that Schafer guy farther than I can throw my poodle); and come home a better man. I know you can do it, sugarbear.
Potential love,
April Turner (a.k.a.: the Governor Formerly Known As Elaine)
Dear Brian,
My mother advised against writing to you. I felt, however, that in spite of your incessant stalking, your rampant kleptomania, and your bizarre obsession with manatees, that you're a decent enough guy that I can't simply brush you off without an explanation. One cannot share hallucinations with another person and then not feel some kind of connection with that person afterward, I feel.
In any case, I am writing to you to let you know that I'm well. I took well-deserved rest and relaxation at my parents' estate after my release from Landel's, and I should be ready to take back my job very soon. Good thing, too; those health violation notices aren't going to sign themselves. One thing I've noticed since I left, though, is that it's been oddly [pen rested here] quiet without you around. I'm still getting used to looking over my shoulder and not seeing you standing there with your hand somewhere it doesn't belong. Or looking at me with some kind of dopey smile. I can even say I miss talking to you — even the crazed piratical conversations where you were from the future and we were married somehow. They were sweet in their own preposterous way.
That said, I do hope you are able to see reason soon, Bri. It would be nice to meet you as a reformed, sane man. If you were a man like that, I might consider letting you buy me a root beer sometime. As it stands now, though, I don't see any room for someone like you in my life, sweet as you are. I'm sorry, but you're just not worth the stress.
So please, I urge you: let the staff there help you; get a better lawyer (I wouldn't trust that Schafer guy farther than I can throw my poodle); and come home a better man. I know you can do it, sugarbear.
Potential love,
April Turner (a.k.a.: the Governor Formerly Known As Elaine)