The Dramatic Hollywood Rabbit

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Lal, I was surprised to receive your letter. After all it has been almost five years since we last met. I am sorry for the loss of your son, Raj. Even though we parted on bad terms I would never have wished him any harm. Your request to visit with my son took me by surprise. It forced me to remember things I would rather forget. I remember when I first met Raj. It was the first day of our senior year at high school. He was tall dark and handsome and walked through the halls as if he owned the school, everything a 17 year old girl dreams of. Rumors had run rampant through the school about the new senior boy who had just transferred from California: that he was good in basketball and tennis, had gotten over 1500 on his SATs, and had his own convertible. During the next month every girl in school tried to get him to ask her out. Some even got the nerve to ask him out. He always said no. I was the nice smart girl who was good for borrowing note

I know both who and what I am.  It is not necessary for anyone else to know.  Only one thing is important.  At the moment, I feel like my insides have been scooped out. I sit here alone.  Again.  The details why aren’t very interesting.  The fact that I received bad news isn’t even interesting.  The fact that my insides feel like they have been scooped is downright boring.   I don’t believe in regret. I don’t believe in guilt. I am practical.  If I can’t change something, then I don’t think about it.  I have conditioned myself to not dwell on things that cannot be changed. Pain.  There are so many types of pain.  The worst kind is when your insides are hollow.  When you hear bad news and know there is absolutely nothing you can do to change it.  The kind you have to live through. The hollowness is not only physical but emotional and rational as well.  The stomach hurts.  Emotions bounce from extreme to extreme.  Thoughts turn upon themselves.  Until finally one by one