>Welcome to Hel, by Jennifer Stevenson (from the middle somewhere)

>Dear Ma.
I write you these letters on nights when I’m restless, confused, fuck I don’t know.
Dear Ma.
You don’t know this, but your daughter is an energy vampire. She wants to hold you in her arms and suck out your happy life force because it tastes so good. I sometimes think I remember what your mother’s milk tastes like. It must be at least as tasty as your life energy. So happy. So sweet.
Dear Ma.
Once you are gone, I will start trying to kill myself.
Dear Ma.
How can I say such things, even to myself? I had larger ambitions for my life once. Drink just depresses me. Why can’t I be a happy drunk, like my mother?
Dear Ma.
Can I crawl back inside your womb and start over?
Didn’t think so.
Dear Ma.
Nothing good can come of me talking to this federal agent, so of course I want to do it. How can someone who lives such a careful life have so many self-destructive urges? Conundrum.
Dear Ma.
Next time no Kalhua. I can’t sleep. I’m drunk and angry and tired and I can’t sleep. I hate this feeling.
Dear Ma.
I am so happy. I have met a man who seems like he could handle it if I told him the truth.
That’s impossible. I’ve lived through a lot of improbable, a lot of it. I know the difference between impossible and improbable.
He would be so annoying to talk to.
I don’t want to talk to him, anyway.
Dear Ma.
I have not killed anybody in almost a year. This means I am overdue. I have learned the hard way that if I let my guard down, somebody pushes me into a corner and I have to, you know.
I don’t know if it’s have to. What I fear is that I’m merely being lazy. That the first time blew me away, terrified me, horrified me, created this hatred of myself that has never left me. And since then, the kills come farther apart. But they’re still easier. So much easier.
Dear Ma.
I have this fear that if I am not vigilant, I will do this spy thing just because I am so bored, I have run out of interesting ways to be self-destructive. I am afraid that I will talk myself into believing that Mr. Federal Agent can make a difference in this crazy fucked up world, and that if I help him, I can make a difference too. Any excuse.
Because the fact is, my off-the-wall boys are very sweet and all, but I get tired of associating with people who speak in words of one or two syllables. I want adult problems for once. Not just who peed in his pants today.
Dear Ma.
I am so drunk. Does it feel like this for you? If you are so happy, why do you drink? I am unhappy, that is why I drink. I think it is, anyway.
Dear Ma.
I am starving to death. I no longer know for sure if it is prana I starve for, or if it is simply human touch. Would I feel fed if I held someone for as long as I really want to hold them? What if I first filled up on prana, say, at a roller derby bout, or in the subway…god, do you know how many hours I’d have to endure that grim, crabby energy? Argh. But if I could. If I could really be fully fed for once. Could I hold you for an hour, just hold you, feel you touching me? Could I have sex with a man and not kill him, not accidently suck him dry and feel him crumble to dust in my arms? Jesus fucking christ, what a horrifying experience. I never want to go through that again. Ever.
Dear Ma.
What would make me happy?
I don’t know. I simply don’t know.
Dear Ma.
I love you. Don’t die yet. I need you to teach me how to be happy.

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