Yours, Annie

Dear Mark,
I honestly have no idea why I do the things that I do. It’s rather like I’m watching a movie, that someone else is directing. I’m the star but I don’t know any of my lines. I sat all day in the attic and ate apples and read. It poured, completely poured rain but I was dry and warm and none of my dratted cousins could find me. My dog, who only responds to my commands and has completely adopted me the darling, sat at my feet and listened to me cry over Sylvia Plath, and J.K Rowling, and my poor tattered old copies of The Secret Garden and A Wrinkle In Time. I’ve really done it this time Mark, and I don’t know how I shall ever get out of this one. The shouting shook the floor and my uncle burned every one of my journals he could get his hands on. I’m so happy I’m not actually related to them. Why they force me to pretend they are my relatives is ridiculous. They act like the love me around others but they only want the money father left me. They shall never get it Mark! Ever! Please, let us run away and have a really dreadfully painful and wonderful adventure exactly like in the books. You can bring you sister and friend and we’ll be too far gone by the time they realize, the stupid creatures. I think that London sounds like a marvelous idea. How we shall manage to apply I haven’t the slightest idea but it will happen, I can feel it in my bones. It’s getting lighter every day and it must be at least eight o’clock, I can here them eating downstairs. Aunt Lisa came and shout round the house that I wasn’t allowed any dinner because of what I’ve done, but she doesn’t realize the dumbwaiter works perfectly fine and the apple storage could last me for months if I so desired. I’m warm and dry, and Bog is curled up in a warm doggie doughnut so I really have everything I need except for you. I miss you terribly Mark.
Yours,
Annie.

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