Dear Bread Boy,
Damn you. Damn you for putting me through the pain I haven’t felt in centuries. You’re a bloody arse for making me fall in love with you, no matter how hard I tried to deny it. You’re a pain in my arse, you are an arse, and now what is turns into was vanishing along with my heart. I hate you for making me feel soft inside, and now I will never hold your hand or punch your arm again.
Tears fall from my red-stained cheeks as the quill rushes over this piece of parchment. Crying, bread boy, like a little boy who got taken away from his mum’s teet too young. Pathetic. You made me pathetic. You made me love, care, and angry as bloody hell.
I’ve never been this lost before in my life, and I’ve lived through many centuries before you found me. Not even when I lost my family did, I ever feel so broken inside. And not because my iniquitous aunt took me to whom the hell knows where, but because I don’t know how my heart will ever beat again, knowing yours beats no more.
Damn you, Oliver Turner, for making me write such vile things. In the depth of my heart, I still feel your presence, as if your soul is trying to intertwine with mine. So, if you’re still out there, for the love of all Goddesses, please don’t do anything stupid. I’ll find my way to you, no matter what, because no matter how hard I try, you’ll always be a part of me.
I love you, Bread Boy.
Stay alive,
Blair
