The 9th of February 1974 – Shenandoah, Pennsylvania

(found buried in a spinster’s sock drawer; amongst a collection kept in a folder which was labeled “If I Had The Courage”)

George, oh George, oh George,

They want me to stop, George, they do. I want me to stop George, really, I do.

It doesn’t make sense to me anymore. That’s the whole thing. That’s the confusion of it all. They keep saying I’m infatuated. They keep saying it’s a crush, an obsession, like I’m a little six year old.

Immature infatuation. That’s what they call it, George. But it can’t be. It just can’t.

But, see George, they make it so insignificant. But if it’s so insignificant, then why does it seem so significant to me?

Really, George, I wish it were that easy. I really just wish it were so simple. I wish it were just a little bubble in my gut, a little tumor of this infatuation, this growing, crying, throbbing mess. I wish it were there because, if it were, I’d go into my kitchen, and I’d grab a knife. I’d cut it right out of me, George, I really would. I’d cut it right out of me and go deep into the woods just to bury it. I’d bury it so that nobody else ever has to deal with it too. I would, George. I’d cut it right out of me. It’d be so much easier.

That first time you came into the room, George, just let me tell you what happened. That first time, you drained my whole world of color. You just sucked out all the light. George, when you walked into that room, everything just went straight to black and white, and the sound got all tinny and muffled like an old-time movie. George, George, there was one thing that wasn’t dull and grey left in that room. There was one thing that was bright and vibrant, George. That thing was you. That’s what it’s like, George. That’s what it was like, at least.

I’m sick, George. I’m sick for you. I’m sick, and I’m wounded, and I’ve got this knife jabbed into my belly, and I’ve got this tumor, and I’m about to vomit all the time. George, I’m just sorry, that’s all.

I’m just sorry. I’m sorry if I bothered you, or if I followed you too close or if I looked at you too much from down the supermarket aisle or anything at all. I’m just sorry. And, George, I’m just sorry that I ever had to meet you.

That’s it, George. That’s it.

Forever,

Donna

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