Email to Kitty, from Illyana

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To: [Pryde, Kitty]
From: [Rasputin, Illyana]



Yeah, well. I guess I could do some honesty.

I've got a headache all the time from the bloody concussion and believe me, washing oatmeal off my shoes close to midnight with one hand (making sure not to get the other one wet, so that the doctors don't shout at me) was not the fun task it sounds like. And you know, I'm bloody tired and I hate how that godawful addict girl can sit there having put a love potion into an idiot's hands and accuse me of having demon subjects, and I'm kind of tired of her being right in a skewed, biased way. I hate how Paige decided that putting oatmeal in my shoes was her best option, and then couldn't even take what she dished out (literally).

I wish I had put all of her shoes in Madagascar. I wish I'd given them to poor Madagascarian children who would use them to walk in Madagascarian swamps where crocodiles lived, and then the crocodiles ate their feet and Paige's shoes too. It's scary, because I also wish I could just make her shut up, and then I think, Oh, I can, and of course I feel guilty that I can and that I remembered I could.

Of course I'm bloody petty. Why is this always such a goddamn surprise to people? Like I haven't been petty a thousand times before. But it's not like I've destroyed Amanda's precious wards or thrown anyone into the depths of hell or even touched anyone else here. So why is it my problem that all these people can think about is words. Like they mean anything anyway.

And I am never going to catch up in my classes, because I barely understood in the first place and I can't even bring myself to ask for help -- and you know, I'd almost rather fail, because to be honest at least failing school is something I'm supposed to be doing. And maybe after that I will finally have the good conscience to just get out of here, having thoroughly abused all opportunities offered to me and alienated at least half the population. Which I do on purpose, don't think I'm asking for sympathy.

But then I ask myself where I'm supposed to go and there's pretty much nowhere, just a world full of people like Clarice and Amanda and my patience is wearing very thin. And Limbo. Fantastic.

It's stupid.

I'm not making any sense, am I. I'm tired and you listen to me complain enough, so I'm also sorry. You should just forget you read this. Here, I'll give you space for that:












There. Your memory should be properly erased. I'll see you in a few minutes anyway, you probably won't even get this until tomorrow.

Illyana