Shane waited for Carmen to fall asleep; she sat watching her not wanting to leave. She could feel her curiosity pull her to the letters. She went to them reluctantly, holding them carefully like they were made of glass. She could feel everything from the day returning, all the anger, the pain, but above all the confusion. She never needed him before; she didn’t know why she felt anything towards him. He was the asshole who left her and her mom when she was 7 month’s old. She didn’t remember him; she didn’t think about him, she held no memories of him. The only thing that connected them was the last name, and she happened to like it.

     She went out to the balcony, the cool night air hitting her as soon as she opened the door. She welcomed it; it made her wake up more. She looked out to see the quiet street below, and just beyond that horizon of buildings rang a voice of the life she once led. She felt restless; her feet were aching wanting to move. Her body craving the taste of something to numb its pain, her mind was racing. She stared at her old life, and back at her new one. She felt scared; she wasn’t sure what she wanted. The old fast paced life of sex, drugs, and no place to call home. She didn’t miss that, the loneliness that surrounded her for most of her life. She did miss the thrill of it all, the challenge of convincing the girl to go home with her. Of how she would be meeting with a crowd of women each night, all wanting her to take them home. The not knowing where she’ll end up, it used to scare her, but she loved the fear.

     Her idle hands searched for her cigarettes, she held one in her mouth trying to get her lighter to work. The flame springing to life she suddenly felt a need to know, a certainty that it was going to be alright. So she grabbed the first letter, holding it in her shaking hand. She was afraid of what he had to say, she was afraid that it would be bullshit, and more so if it was true. She felt the grime of the old discoloured paper in her fingers, the weird crinkling noise it made. The letter was short, no more than a few sentences, it was dated for her fourteenth birthday. It took him thirteen years to give her it, and she some how felt a twinge of affection for him.