Frances, I'm worried

Dear Frances,

I'm worried about Mum. She's not getting any better, Frances, and those new meds that the doctor prescribed just make her get up the middle of the night. I walked into the kitchen last night--I often have trouble sleeping, ever since Dad...well, you know...anyways, she was just standing there in front of the kitchen sink window, staring out into the city. And when I called out her name softly, she just looked at me, Frances. As if she didn't know who I was.

But then she smiled and walked back to bed.

I suppose she's been writing to you about how antisocial I've been--Ellen, too, I bet. But I can't explain it to them, Frances. You rememeber, when we were little? And you were the only one I would talk to, because that one man at the zoo scared me so much that I couldn't look straight at people for weeks. But you understood. It's like that again. I've just been so scared of--of everyone. And so I act angry because it keeps them away.

I just worry that I've got whatever Mum

I just worry that I'm not going to snap out of it. But it's probably just me being silly.

Anyways, write back soon. God knows you could use the conversation, where you are.

Love, Chelsea

The End

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