“Write a letter,” they told me. “Let your pain run free through the ink of the pen; flood the page with your sorrow.” So perhaps this will help.
You called me Princess, remember? You were my Prince and the house our castle. We planned on having two children, to complete the final piece of our fairy-tale jigsaw before you… went. You told me I’d be a miraculous mother to our children, and that you’d always be there for us. You said you’d work extra hours just so the children – our children – could have the finest toys and the house that turned neighbours green with envy. Our life was picture perfect, wasn’t it?
Will you talk with me for a while? I want to feel the warmth of your skin against mine; you know, the way you caressed my cheek with the tip of your thumb. I need to hear the gentle tone of your voice, I want you tell me that everything will be okay, that there really is light at the end of my sorrowful tunnel.
The light inside of me is slowly failing, dimming gently as each agonising day passes. Some days it flickers – my little light – and these gentle glimmers give me sparing doses of hope, of temporary elation. They always die back down though; plummeting to the depths of my despair only to come to an abrupt halt once more. With no radiance left inside of me, I am worthless.
Defencelessly I face judgement. Not a day passes without a condemning glance here or a whispered scold there. Your mother visited yesterday and I sensed her condescending glare from the moment she arrived. “I suppose we’ll all just have to move on,” she snarled, whilst her piercing eyes darted toward the photos of you on the wall. Her words were delicately overpowering, full of pity and unfelt sympathy. The light shut off once more as my resentment became apparent. Move on! How could anyone on this earth possibly expect me to move on? My heart has been mercilessly ripped from my body, alongside any remaining ounce of self-belief. My soul has been torn away;...