 
                          November 12th, 2002
 
November 12th, 2002
 
Dear Maggie,
 
	I’m writing to you because you seem like the type of person who would
sit down and take the time to read a note, and actually care about its
contents. You don’t know me, but I’ve seen you a few times in the
hallways in school. Please don’t try to figure out who I am because
then I would not know how to face myself any more when I look in the
mirror. I’ll tell you a little about me though. I’m fifteen years old
and I come from a very rough childhood. When I was seven years old I
walked in on my father having sex with a woman I had never seen in my
life before. Later that night my father came into my room and locked
the door behind him. He just stared at me for a few minutes until he
snatched me by my arm and threw me against the wall. He hit me upside
the head and asked me what I was thinking when I walked into his
bedroom without knocking. I was trembling like crazy and only a few
muttered words fumbled from my lips. He punched me once in the gut, and
once hard across my face. I remember the black eye I got from
that...all the kids at school made fun of me for days and asked me if
my sister had beaten me up. He beat me until I promised I would never
tell my mother about what I had seen. Only weeks later my mother died
of what the police called "mysterious circumstances". 

So now here I am at age fifteen, with no friends, no mother, and a very
abusive father. My stepmother never really says much to me so I can’t
really say I have a "mother-figure". I didn’t see the face of the woman
my father had the affair with, but I’m sure it was Lori (my
stepmother). I’m the loner at school, the "gothic" as most would tend
to label me as. I dress in the black clothes and I wear the spiked
collars and bracelets. I’m quiet unless I’m spoken to because of the
fact that the kids pick everything apart that one says, and no matter
how much I try, I cannot avoid the nasty comments. Some call me weird,
I like to think of myself as mysterious.
 
I had a friend once...Tony. Tony was the most understanding,
compassionate guy I had ever met. He had an amazing sense of humor, and
he did not under any circumstances judge any one by the color of their
skin, or the clothes they wore. Then one day I got a phone call from
Tony’s mother. He had been in a serious car accident and was in a coma
at the local hospital. Of course I rushed to the hospital as fast as I
could, and when I got there I found out that Tony had passed on. I
never did get to say goodbye, which is what probably bothers me the
most about it. If I had gotten to say goodbye and have some closure
maybe I wouldn’t be so hesitant to make friends today. I miss Tony,
he’s the only person who ever gave me a chance, and just let me be
myself. 

So now that you know a little about me, I think I’ll write to you in a
few days and tell you the events that have occurred. I’ll give you a
name to call me...how about Mike? Nice and simple, Mike will do.
Goodbye for now my friend...
 
Sincerely,
 
Mike
 


November 17th, 2002
 
Dear Maggie,
 
	I figure it was about time to send you another note. I hope you’ve
read my first and been somewhat understanding of what I meant about not
trying to figure out who I am. This week has been very interesting,
though disturbing. 

In my second hour class there is a couple who have been together for
nearly eight months now. Their names are Tracy and Jeff. Well,
Wednesday night they were out at High Point, a high cliff over looking
the city. Some people call it "make out point". Well, apparently Jeff
had accidentally put the car in neutral instead of park and while they
were doing their business...the car began to slide towards the cliff
edge little by little. You’d think they’d notice, but of course they
didn’t and their car fell from the cliff with them in it. When they hit
the rocks below the car exploded and neither lived. The school called
an assembly Thursday afternoon and told all the students about it, the
friends of Tracy and Jeff breaking out into tears or excusing them
selves from the auditorium to go to the bathroom. I didn’t know either
of them very well, but I had never had a problem with them. They were
*the* perfect couple, they were so nice to everyone, even me, the
freak. The school is going to be holding a ceremony in remembrance of
the two, and I think I’ll go because of the fact that they were
actually accepting of me, and knew I was alive. You know, they knew I
was a human being and that I had emotions too. 

One day last year in Home Ec, I was attempting to sew a potholder for
my stepmother, Lori. Well I was obviously having problems and Tracy
looked over to me and noticed. With a kind look on her face she asked,
"Would you like some help Mike?" I stared at her in disbelief, then
shook myself out of it and said "Yes" softly. She sewed the rest of the
potholder for me and in turn was late handing her project in. That is
the nicest thing *anyone* has ever done for me. When I said I was sorry
about making her project late, she just shrugged it off and told me
that I shouldn’t worry about it and that she’d help me whenever
necessary. 

So even though I probably don’t belong at the ceremony, I’m going any
ways because of the fact that its just nice to remember people who were
so kind to everyone. I wonder if you’ve heard of this incident? Most
likely you have. Now that you’ve heard it from me though, I’m sure you
understand a little more. I’ll write in a few days, until then.
 
Yours truly,
 
Mike
 
