Work Text:
For the first time in a while, Foster found herself with some extended time home alone. Often, such days were maddening. She'd be glued to her phone, chatting with - or perhaps pestering - fellow members of the cast, waiting for her partner to be done with work for the day.
This unsuspecting day was the exception.
Following her usual routine, she slept in until late into the morning, where begin the process of lazing about until the late afternoon. However, something was immediately different about that day, her partner didn't wake her up to say goodbye.
It wasn't unusual. Just out of character. Foster chalked it up to a busy morning and left it at that, considering whether she'd leave a passive-aggressive text to convey her aggravation.
As the morning progressed, Foster found herself downstairs, discovering the true culprit to the morning's unusual air:
A lone letter on the counter. On the envelope, it was simply signed "To Foster, with love. Please take care while reading."
The message was concerning, to say the least. Almost like the letter could explode if not handled with care.
Lifting it up, a folded up piece of paper was found underneath. It was marked as "read first".
Foster had half a mind to tear the letter open then and there. But- if it's that important, she conceded, noting the trepidatious tone that it was written in, best follow the instructions...
Seeing this was going to be an ordeal, she took the letter and note to the couch, setting both on the coffee table. There was an unusual weight that hung in the air as Foster looked between the two. Not exactly sure how to make heads or tails of it all.
The note was simple:
"I wrote this shortly after we met" it began. "You might remember, I wasn't in the best headspace..."
"It's too important to me to throw away, but too painful for me to read and reminisce. So, if you're willing, I offer it to you, to do with as you see fit."
"You don't even need to read it. You can tear apart, burn it - whatever you decide, I'll trust your judgment."
The last part was underlined, "If you do decide to read it, please take care. As the letter, frankly, contains my darkest thoughts put to paper."
It was signed at the end.
"Love you~ And thank you."
The letter starred back from the coffee table, taunting her.
With a nervous sigh, Foster grabbed the letter, slowly unsealed it, and produced the papers within. It was a series of pages from a diary or journal. No dates or titles attributed to them.
They appeared to have been crumpled multiple times over, even torn apart and repaired. One appeared to have been stained in some way. Whatever color may have been attributed to them had faded with time.
Foster's heart stopped at the display. A slew of emotions stormed within. But the immediate visceral response was sadness. She had yet to read a single word, but she could feel the pain and weight in the pages already.
After mustering all of her will and taking a deep breath, she began.
When my day begins, the sun shines bright. It fools me into believing things can be different.
I stare at my beloved next to me in bed. She stares lovingly back with piercing eyes.
We talk about the goings on of our day to day over breakfast, as we pay our respects to the concept of a relationship. Until it's time.
I beg her to stay, to keep my day bright. With a caress she kisses me goodbye.
After all, I love her.
When she leaves for the day, the sun blinks out. I'm left alone with my thoughts admist the darkness that creeps into the room.
I don't like my thoughts these days.
In the corner of the apartment the grandfather clock ticks.
It's a harrowing countdown to my punishment.
I consider ways to hasten or slow it. But fighting time is a futile effort. I should know that by now.
Dread.
That's all I can feel. Like a creeping shadow raising over me, the clock continues to tick.
I try to reassure myself. I try again. But I know what I deserve. How can I forget? She tells me every day.
What she tells me...
Do I have reason to doubt it? When no one has told me otherwise?
Who is everyone? Her? Do I truly know anyone the way she knows me?
We consider solitude a blessing, but where does solitude become imprisonment? Am I a prisoner to her? Or myself?
It's noon now. The clock ticks and rings. I shudder at the noise.
I decide to eat. There's no flavor to anything. No appetite to satiate. Is this routine?
Despite the waves of nausea, I finish my meal, wholly unsatisfied.
I don't deserve it.
I consider how I can punish myself. Foolishly believing she'll accept that as an alternative.
Can I compare to her? The way she knows how to peel back the folds of my mind and prove or disprove my worth? The way she strikes me to my core and corrects my imperfections.
It's because of that, I love her.
I recall how she cares for me. The firm hold she has on me when we embrace. When she finally affirms to me how there's no one else for her and no one better for me.
I consider punishment again. I'm reminded of when I take it too far. When I wake up to a room of white. I flinch every time, as I know what happens when I return.
But somehow, when I'm reminded of the people in white who helped me. Their touches too gentle. Their concern frighteningly genuine. I thought only children were treated that way.
What does that make me?
A child clinging to their mother? A lost lamb in search of their shepherd?
Is that how she sees me? A lamb that's to be guided home? A child that needs to be disciplined?
I clutch my arms. The remainders they leave are too haunting. I know they're deserved, but do they need to linger?
The clock continues to tick.
It's time for her to return. I disprately await on the couch. She'll return. Aware of my failures.
I can try to hide them away. But she'll discover them.
I can try to hide myself. But I can't stay away.
If she is not at least aware, she'll certainly discover my failures.
The clock ticks. The door creaks.
I'm stiff on the couch. No longer a person, but an object of my lovers disappointment.
The light does not return when she enters. There is no escape from my reckoning.
The clock ticks as she looms over me, sizing my faults.
She reaches down to correct me-
Foster had to pause for a breath. The words trailed off, expecting to be completed on the opposite side of the page.
She wipes the sweat from her brow, but pauses when she notices how... Messy her hand was.
Lead. Her hand was absolutely filthy with some sort of pencil lead.
She turned the page over and read-
T̸̺͓͚͈͉̰̤̣͕͈̹̪̺̤̘̣̜̤̭̘̪͈̬̝̀̓͌̔̉̑̆͋͛́́̌̉̈̀͌̏̏̉͛̎̔̐̃̈́̓̾͊́͌͘̚ͅH̴̛̹͇̤̫̫̝̮̺̫̘̖̟̳̑̀̌͊́̂͊̌͋̂͛̽̾̽͆͆͌̆̓́̓̏͂̇͊̅̽̋̓̽̀̐͛̂̎̓̚͘͠͝͝͝Ę̶̧̨̧̛̛̝͓̯̘͈͕̜͍̝͖̻̹͎̱̪̭͍͇̝̈́̎̓͌̌͋̄͗͊̓̓͌͋͑̚ͅ ̷̢̨̳̳̜͈̝͙͙̱̖͉͇̪̻̙̖̰̱̬̗̽͛́̊͛̍͋̿̏̍̈́̓͊̒͛͗̎̀͗̈́̔͑̃̓̓̌̈͌͆͌̿͆̆͋̑͒͑̚̚̚̕͠͝͝ͅͅP̷̢̨̢̡̮̥͉̮̙̻̜̥̮͖̬͔̮͓̳̝̘͎̳̺̺̰̲̳̦̘̳̪̙͇̬̹̲̩̣̱̰͕͕̖͙̺̣̗̄̀̋͗͗̋̓̈́̆̈́̓̈͒͆̉̎̿̿͛̆̀̅̽̓̈́̃̀̌͐̎́̉͋͐̌̊̅̉̅͛͘͜͠ͅĀ̷̡̡̡̡͚̱͉͎͈̝̖͕̭̟̜͓̰̥̖̱̣̝̟̤͉̯͓̣̙̭̙̥̄͜͜I̴̧̧̡̡̛̛̲̠̯͈̖̻̙̺̹̼̥̠̙̯͇̱̯̹͚̤̪̱̥̾̈́̃̓̉̆̂̏̐̑͋̈̾̾̓͑̓́͊̀̒͊͆̑́̎̂̿̕͘͘͜͠͝͝͝͝ͅŅ̷̡̬̜͖͚̥̪͇̖̹͖̲̿̎͂̃͗̍̾͗̂̐͐̓̍̏̍̒̈͒́̓̈́͑̀̑̕͜͜ ̴̡̢̛̙̳̳̖̜̱̗͍͓̰̞̬̭̼̰̫͖̘͉̥͚̦͓̙̒͐͂̈́́̈̍̐̈́̈͌̀̅͆̈́͒̂̆͌̀̐͋͘͜͝͠͝͠G̶̨̧̢̧̧̨̢̛̜̘̹͎̳͍͓̣̝͉̭͚̻͈̞̥̩̳̬͎̮͇̤̳̮̘̬̬͉̣̜͎͉̲͆̌̇̋̆̿͗̈́̆͛͒̓͑̋͐̈̑̇͌̆́͊̄̏̄͗̋̈́̅̀͛̊̕̚͜͜͜͠͠ͅͅĮ̸̡͔̰̩̭̤͓͔̲̞̘̪̜̻̫̤͍̯̲̠͈͉̙͇̞͖͚̳̙̣͈̣͛̇̓̈͐̔̇̑̈͑̒͊͂̓͜͝V̵̡̧̨̨̛̛̤͇̙̜̤̩̰͖̤̘̝̲͓͖̜̱̜͈͉̖͖͉̳̤̠̬̜̗̮̘̭͕͗̌͌̃̿̈́̅̄̏́͊̅̊͋̀̂̑̾͋͑̌͂̀̓̽́͘͘̕͘͝͠ͅͅE̷̡̢̢̡̞̭̩͎̗͕̻̠͖̻̼̰̦͓̠̼̖̘͇̹̗̥̗͎͚̤̣̖͙͖̜̤̲̫̱̦̫̬̤̭͉͝ͅR̶̡̢̢̢̡̝̠̫͉̫͉͉͕̜̳̻͔̪̻̜͍̫͇̖̼͉̰̥̖̩̲̳̫̣̣͚̝̟͍̫̃̉̿̄̄͊͗̓̀̎͒́̌́̋͂̇͐̽̏́̉͋̏̂͗̈́̽́̐̌̃̓̌̕͘̚̕̕͝͠ ̶̧̢̛̛͔̺͙̱͇͍̳̲̝̙͙̮̈́̓̒̒̈̔͒̍̑̇͗͗̀̿̀̊͊͂̒̀͑̎̑̾̓̑̀̅̀̄͒̑̋̅̀̍͘͘̕̚̚͜͠͝͝͝R̶̢̧̧̡̨̡̧̢̻̥͉̰̖̰̘̙̺̰̙͈̮͚̟̥̯̱͈̗̹̹̩͈͌̄̅̉̌̅̒͐̑͆̔͂͜͝ͅË̵̢̤̻̭̰̔͐͛̀̔̈͆̈́̈̿̃̅͋̅͋̎̓́̑̆͐͋̄̾͊̈̈́̓͘̚͝͝Ṭ̸̡̢̡̢̛̟̥̱͚̳̻̘͎̼̣̙͚͇̝̺̜̤̪̠̹͍͕͍͍͈̩͔̣̭̣̰͍͖̤̺͔̺̹̙̀̽̉̀̑͑̈̅͊̀̎͛͋̎͑͋̃̍̊̍̽̽͂̀̉̈́͗͌̐̚̚̕͜͜͝͝͝͠ͅͅÚ̶̪͙͍͆̊̇̀̊̐̀̿̊̒̓̉͌̒͘Ŗ̴̢̢̧̡̯̹̝͈̩͍͔͚̝̘̬͍̹̰͕̤͉̮̞̺̗̲̝̩͚̥̭͔̮̩̩̤̟̞̻̝͓̻͓͚̔͑͒̔̏ͅN̶̨̢̡̞͙͓̠̱̟͍̳̻̹̘̜̙͖̜͍̜̣͓̟͚̤̹͚̜̹̰͙̬̳̩̭̳̙̔͊̋̈̿̉̉̃̊̀̌͑̔̆̈́͊͗̅̃̄̈̊̈́̋͗̾͗͜͠͝ͅS̶̢̧̡̢̨͎̹̣̰̣̪̞͚̮̺̦̱͓̝̠̙͖͕̩̟̫̲̬͍̭̼͕̪̪͎͔̲̱̭̝̟͎͔̻̹͖̠͊͊̈́̐̊͝͝ͅͅ.̸̧̢̱͕͕̖̙̰̞̰̹̖̖͕̺͍̦̻̩̹̖̝͔͍̯̝̰͙̞̻̞̻̄͐̈́̔̑́̍̀̂̌̈́͠
̷̡̢̛͓̹̫̬̪͍̺̩̤̥S̸̨̡̨̨̧̧̨͇͕̝̟͇̗̲͔̥͖͎͇̱̝̲͔̻̦͕͉̞̬̞̞͕̘͈̺̙̻̉̾̈́̋̄̅̅̿̈́̅̌̓͂̌̈́̒́͐͑́̏̈́̌̈́͆̀͊͊́̑̀͂̾̔̚͘͘͠͝ͅͅͅH̶̨̧̢̛̺̮͕̺̳̩̤͇̦̟̯̬̘͚̞͖͍̘̻̬̠̩͎̯̘̙͇͕̤̲̟̼͕̰̹̼̮̩̖̩͉͖̭̃̇̓̎́̉̏̓̽͐̌̊͒̇̒̂̆͊̊́͗̋̊̌͊̃̊͘͜ͅE̶̡̨̡̢̧̩͖̣̜͇͉̦̘͓̹͖̲̲̻͍̤̣͙̥̊̈́̊̓̅̆͑̅̈́̀͗͊̆͐͋̐̿́́͆̀͑̏̕̕͝ ̶̧̳̪̞͈̥̹̖́́͋̃̈̒̋́̀̓̓͌̈́̚͠͝Ḩ̷̹̺̯̫̖͔̟͔̤̭̮̺̦̗̤̝̫̺̝̪̭͙̾̀̅̊͛̾̾͐̐͗̽́͌̀̀̍̊͘͘͝͠ͅŲ̶̡̢̛͇̪̭͖̠̩̰̟̼̹͎̰͎͕͔͚̣͎̫͔̫̲̜̭̣̝͍̺͚̺̝̃̃̈́͑̔̃̂̔̃̏͊̑̿̐͒͂̀͗̎̔͋̿͆̂̌͐̓̾̓̀̏͆̓̈́̈́̿̓͛̕̕̚̚͝͠͝͠ͅͅṘ̵͈̠̠̣̌͆̀̓̈́̄͗̂̆͆͊͋̓͂͂̋͗͗̔̔͑̓̽̈͋̂̈͐̄͌̃̾̀̐̈͝͝͝͝͝Ţ̷̡̧͓̫̥̞̙̻̞͖̳̙͉̮̩̰̭͕͖͍͈̠͚͔͎͓͓̰̺̦͈̲̱͚̼̲̊̃̈́̒̉͒̀̚Ş̶̨̙͍̣̫̖̤̖̬̲̖̹̗̙̭̺̘̮̭̯̯̞̖͕͎̻̣̱͉̘͎̠̪̦͓͕͈̱̫̘̘̑̎̔́̏̏̔̏̓͆͋́̎̓̈́̎̌́̇̽̈́̓̚̕͜͠͝ͅ ̵̡̛͍͕̻̪̜̉̓͌́͋̉̇͒̌͂̎̈̒̇̄͊̄̈͛̒̓̐̎̔̍͋͊̅͑̉̾͘͘͜͠ͅM̸̛̛͉̥͕̟͍͆̎͂̆̌̎̏̓̈́̓͌̔͋̌̊̀̓̃̇̀̿̊͗̎̋̕͘̕̕̕͝͝Ȩ̶͉͎̳̟̬̈͛̎̀̆͌̋̅̄̀̑̒͑̑͋̃̃̕͠͝ ̴̧̢̨̛̛̰̤̣̪͚͔̠̯̮̙͓͖̫̫̫̪͎̯͔̲͇̫̬̝̜̺̦̹̺͎̲̈́̅̾̃̊̂͗̈̓̓̃͂͗͑͂̎̑̏̂͋͌̒͆̚͜͠͝S̴̨̛̹̗͕̖̣̫̜͔̺͔͙͔͙͖̞͍̱͓̩̯̖̗̠͙̾̋̈́̂̇͋͐̎́̎̀̉̌̿̇̆̇͑̅̉̕̕̕̕͝͝͝͠͝Ō̸͕̺̜͛̿̅̅̿̇͐̌̀͂̔̆̄̃̇̅́̌͂̚̕͝ ̴̢̛̜͔̥̳̘̘͙͓͐̔̃͒̀̉̿̀̿̇̉M̵̨̡̨̢̞̫̝̹͔͇͎͚̮͍̞̱̙̞̳̻͔̰̩̩͎̺̪̦̳͕̘̮̯͓͓͎̹̹̌̒̈́ͅͅŲ̵̡̨̢̪̝̟͔͈͙̮̠̟̙͙̱̻̗̼̦̪̤̼̫̣̣̫͉̼͚̖͕̱̺̩̜̲̰͙̿́̂̈́̏̈́̊̄̋̈́̈̀̄͑͌̀͋͌͌̚͘̕̕͠ͅC̴̡̛̛͇̻͈̮̖̘̼̪͖͕̝͊̓́̌̌̋͗͆̿̈̽͑͊̓͂̃͒̆̀̈́͌̇͒̍́͂̑͘̚͘̕̚͘͜͝͝H̴̢̛̺̻̫̝̪̺͎̘͍̟̘̰̳͎̟̗̹̞̺̩̑̊̍̑̌͑̈́̿͂͛͜͝͝͝.̴̧̡̢̧̧̠̖͚̙̗̪͙̤̤̺̥͔̫̪̪̟̘̰̰̺̥̝͍̩̱̺̥̫̪̘͙͍̫̻̯͕̥̼͈͓̬́̾̓͆̅͗̆̄̂̉̀̔ͅ
̸̧͈̭͚̜̱̮̾̏̐̿̉͗́̈́̔̀́͋̂̎̽́͛͝ͅI̶̡̨̡̨̗̳͖̦̼̖̟͙̖͖̖̼͇̩̘̩̜̺̞͇͙͙̝̰̭̜̓̅͆́̾̔̚Ţ̶͉̮̫̹̩̪͔̭̦̹̣̣͔̰̣͇̘̙͖̮̫̞̜̜͉̮͚͍͕̦̦̙̻̐̒̍̅̈̀̑͑͌̏̒̇͒̌̍̄̈̇͊̐̇̽̋͐̅́̏̑̈̾̎͆̏͂̌̋̕̕̚͜͝͠͝͠͠͠ͅͅ'̴̡̛̭̫̘̍̔́̐̿͐̿́͑̈́̊̈́̏̅̆̂̃͗̂͊͐͑̇̓̅̑̿͒͊͗̊͌͗̐̐̏̈́̀͊͒͘̚͘̕̕͘̕͝͠Ś̵̢̨̡̛̛̯̦̗̟̥̪͙̩̝̪̫̦̮͕̳̯̟̜͈̟͙͍͔͉͍̗̞͕̯̦͚̙͎̪̫̦͛͂̔̉̈́̉̈̿͒͑̾̓̀͐͆͋̈́̉̓̆̿͗̎̓̎̿̀̊́̀̃̇̓̈̽͊̚̕̕͜͠͝͝͠ ̴̡̢̢̨̨̨͇̮̹̭͎̳͉̪̳̜̼͉̙̝̹̭͓̝̰̥̭͕͍̘̱̖͈͍̫͙̺̳͖̻̫̪̖̘̭̘̮̔͌̇̉̽́̽͑̏̔́̆̎́͘͜͝͠ͅͅW̴̢̢̧̧̛͇̩̦͍͍̳̳̳̲͈̘̞͖̬̥̘̫̘̱̝͍̣̼͍̻̬̠̯̬͖̖̠̺̲̖̏̈́̈́̅̑̅͌̌̈́͑̏̅̾̑̾̈́̿̇͑̌͛̒̒͑͑̅̽͑̓͊͆́͋͊̾͐̔̾̈́̽͊̔͆͘͝͝͠͝͠ͅH̴̢̰͉̰̭̆̋̑͌͒̃͊̔͑̄̐͆̄̆́̃̔͋̇͐̄͊̔̍͊̿͆̈́̅̈̌̃̎̄̈́͌̒̕̚͘͠͝Ả̸̢͙̼̱̹̝̟̠̯̜͍͙̗̰̘̮̣͚̦̲͍̬͆̌̀͛̏̆̔́̏̌̍̊̅̀̆̂̆̒̍̾̎͗̈́̉̊̋̿̉̂̾́́͗̾͋̋́̒̚͘̚̚͘͝͝͝ͅŢ̷̡̡̣̗͙̹̟̞͕͓̘̠͉̠̓̑̽̇̀͆̅̌̈̾̇̒̂̎̋̂̽̔͊̄̉̑̚͘ ̷̩̻̯͊̕͝D̷̨̨̧̻̗͖͍̝̮͎͙̘͚̺̬̹̫̙̱̤̰͚̱̠̟̻̬͇̦̙͉̩̬͐̋̈́́̍͜͝͝ͅͅͅȨ̸̡̧̘̜͓͔͚̯͎̲̪͇͓̻̭̜̺̘̖̠̫̜̖̠̼̗̦͉̱̾͊̆͌͋̓͗̊͝ͅͅͅS̵̡̧̢̡̛͇͚̙̝̼̫͙̻̮̼̜͓̱̬̙̘̫̰͍̗͎̙͈̣̗̺̯̭̰͚̬͉̠̖͖̲̊̊̒̿͋̈̿̈́̏̊̾̈́̃͗́̈͂̆̔͛͋̄͂͌̆͂̑̏̐̒̌͘͜͜͠͠ͅE̴̡̡̨̻̰̝͈͙̳̯̝̞̣̮͕̗̫̮̖̫̪̹͇̱͙̗̘̦̰̯̖̯̤̳̜͛̓̏̽̎̔͗̀̾͆̉͘͘͜ͅR̵̨̧̡̢̡̛̳̼̰̻̹̰̩̳͔̳̱͖̤͎̿͌͋̐̑͗̋͛̿̇̌͑̑̐̀͊̆̉̂͛̓̌̈́͐͌͌̅͛͘̚͝͠͝ͅV̴̨̧̢̨̢̧̨̥̻̘̹̝̟͎͈̤̳̝̤͔̗͉̜̹͍̪̥̲̻̠̠̠̲̖̩̙̗͍̲̙̻͖͔̯̌͊̂͋̀́̀͐͂͊̄͐̉̒̋͒͊̀͒̉̚͝ͅͅͅẼ̶̡̧̨̡̟̘̘̮͉̫͙̦̦̱̬̻̪̬̰͓̱̦̝̪̝̖̮͕̻̬̗̟̰̜̺̥͇͍̲̙̠̭̆̈͂̈́͊̓̓̇̓̽̾̑̂̕͜͝͠ͅͅ ̶̧̨̛͉̤̟͖̮͙̞̠̜̖̟̝͍̬̝̖̘̖̓̀̀̃̔̋́̐̿͗͗͛̍̋̄̾͑̀̔̌̆͊̓̇̊̐͗̓͑̒͋̈́͌̿̓͝I̸̡̨̧̧̨̨̡̡̢̡̩̲̫̬̞̟͇̦̱̠̬͔͍͈̯͚̻̝͈̣̖͚͍̪͉̳͖͑̈́̍͜͜͜ͅŞ̷̢̛͍̬̪͍̮̼̙͖̼̝͈̠̟̹̫̭̲̱͕̥͖͉̪͍͙̻̭̻͎͇̄̄̍̒̑͂̐͆̀̒̏̐̉̓̅̀͊̊̐͐̌̓́͐͛̈̄̇̍͌͌̇́͋̊͌̓̓̑̈́̿̌̎͘̚͜͠Ṇ̴̨̛͈̦͔̣̣̗̲̲̲̻̩͉̩̣̏͐̊́̌͋̇̍͌̇͆̇̾͂́̀͗͒̈́̓̏̾̂͛̍̐͛̊͛̆̓̊̽̑̈̽́́̃͌̆̌̕͠͝͝͝͠'̵̢̨̼̯͈͔̺̱͈̮̟̣̳̙̼̲̯͔͍̭̙̯̠̹͕̠͉̥͈̟̝͓̠̺̱̝͙͚̤͕̱̬̭͚̽̓͒͋̉͋͛ͅT̷̨̧̨͖͈̥̬̦̳̺̼͍̣̙̫̼̓̀͂̒͛̄͛͗̅͊͋̓́̆̃̿̔̇͐̓̽͛̓̔͊̏͂͗͑̓̇̉̾͒̈̀̕͘͘̕̕͠͠͝ ̷͉̣̠̳͖̖̱̏̇͋̾̄̃̓̾̾̋̓̆̓̏̓͒́̋͒̅̑̽̏̾̈́̽̓̕͝ͅI̸̛͉̱̫͋͊͗́̎̀̇͋̓͐̍̇̀̃̌̑̅͒̍͐͆͋̾̎̐̌̕͘͠T̵̡͓̭̹̝͖͔̹̮̟̦̗͍̜̝̝̦̩̼͕͔͍̫̫̭̹̜̲̫͈̳͈̹̪̠̼͎̲̎̐̐̓̓͘̚͜ͅͅ?̵̛͈͍͈̤̯̩̖̝̗̝̣̠̭̝̭̣̩̜̹̅̈̽̆̀̄̿̂̐̒̆͌́̀̽̐͂̊͝
̷̢̨̧̧̨̧̛͇̗̯͎̠͈̜̰͇͚͉̙̝̭̦̮̦͈̥̱̰̯͚̹̯̩̩͙̭̫̮̰̼̹͔͚̯͕̪̤̟́͐́̋̅̒͐͋̓͒͊͂̅̀̊̓́͛́͒͂̄̒͗͛́̏̑̽̓͒̔̂̌̃̕͜͝͠͝͝͝͠͠͠͠ͅͅḄ̴̧̢̢̢̨͈̥̩̪̜̱͓̻̗̼̫͙͚̤̘͙̖͓̭͎̬͎̼̩̓̉̌̃̐̔̿̋̔̏͑̋͋̅̍͂̒͘͜͜ͅŲ̵̼͚̟͚̼̻̗̯̭͕̰̲̜̻̋́̓̉̽̏̄̅̈́̌͆͌̌̔͊͘T̶̞̖̫̹̤͕͉̻̦̘͔͖͙̹̙̍̈́̎̌͑̾̇̀̆̃̑̉̈́̇̒͒̀͒̈́̐͆̅̎̈́̋͒͗͒̑́͘̕͝͝͝ ̶̡̢̧̧̧̢̢̧̛̛̤̱̟̟̳̟̪̘̮̫̖̝̯̥͇͍͎͕̥̲͇̭͎̩͚̖̰͔̯͖͎̣̺̜̲̖̀͗͋̈́̿́́̿̀́̔͆̍̀̎̒́̀̄̅͂̐͘̚̕̕͜͜͜͜͝ͅI̷̛̥̮̪̘̦̝̬̲̺̼͙̙̖͓̝̘̩͓̖̙̤̮̮̱̖̙̱̮̒́̂̅̾͛͛̈́̇̿̋͂̀̎́̈́̉́̆̐̓͊̾͑̊̿̉̉̍̐̇̔͆̅̈́̏͘͜͝͠͝ͅͅͅ ̶̨̨̛̭͕͍̜͇̬̼̦̠̣̼͈̰̮̟̰͕̳̳͖͇̮͇̞̤̤̭̞̞̞̤̼̫̀̿́̊̈́̐͑̏̌̾̾̈́̄̍̈̎̈́̌̔̈̆̃̊̔͋̍̆̓̍́̕͘̚͜͝͝ͅͅD̶̨̛̥͖͈̦͇̫̞͕̦̅́͒̈̊͆̆̍͒̏͌̀́̉̐̈́̿͐̐̍͒̒̈́̀̔̽̅̏̊̃̋̔̽̑̏̔̈̕͘̕͝͝Ơ̸̝̹̾̋̎̉̊̈́́́̑̔͒̃̓͒̂̄̐͂̍͗͐̽̓̂̋̅͐̄̓͊̾̃͋́̄̊̂̔̽͐͂̈͘̚N̸̨͔̈̿͝'̶̨̢̡̛̪͎̤͕͖̺̠̦̤̞̤̖͖͈̖̖̗̠̔̑̎̆̍͗̿͊͒̏́̄̀̄̎̈́͌̉̆̈́͐͛͂̓̇̑̃̈̒͊̒̽͋̎̑̍̌̐̈́͆̔̂̂̓̚̕͜͜͜͝͠T̴̨̡̨̧̢̡̪̝̩̖̝̭͚̟͇̻̩̞͎̲̼̬̫͖̫̥͓͇͕̣̤̟̯͕͍͎̮͂͂̂̽̆̔̏̾̔̍͌̑̀̈̑̍̿̈̕͜͜͝͝ͅ ̸̡͍̗̙̫̺̪̟͚̼̥̞̥̩̰͓͎͕̼̖̪̬̙̖͉̼̩̙̫̥̟̣̗̉͒͑̾̆̍̓͋͛̋̐͌͌̽̾͋́̈́̄́̌̎͛̾̇͊̆̈́̀̍̕̚̚͝͝ͅW̴̡͖̻͙̤̅̊͂̏̓̾͌̈̑̈́́̀͘̕Á̸̛͎͎̲̪̦̹̜̣̳̟̙̬̭̘̎̾̇͐̒͋̈́͌̽̿̋̑̓͗̓̓̈́̋̓́̓̀́͗̅͘͜͝͝ͅN̴̢̛͇̪̙̟͇͖̠̬͎͖̳̎̊̑͆̏̋̎̀̿̃̿͆͊͛́̽̽̈́̏̄̈́̅͋̿̀͘͘̚͘͝͠͝T̸̻̲͉̳̤͔͎̹̣̯͎͈̟͍͙̲͕̲̺͈̤͈͉̖̹̼̥̺̐̀̆́͆́̄̍̂͝ͅ ̶̡̢̡̛̯͔̙̳͇͉͍̮̬̥̝͉͇̮͎̳͖̠̳̫͉̠̫͉̫͕̩̭͇̬̻̯̫̭̺͔͓̣̤͐̌̌̔̃̀̾͊͗̐̂̒͂̈́͋̕̚Ȉ̷̠̺̮̠̲̠̒̽͑͆͐̅͑̐̋͋͌̈́́̎̓̾̾͛̽̐̐̀̓̏̑́̈̑́̕͘͘͜͜͠T̵̡̲͓̰͖̗̲͌͗̂͑̀̍̅͐̆͂̇̑̇͗̆ͅͅͅͅ.̵̢̡̢̡̡̧̛̛̤͔̗̳̤̼͇̘̖̮̹̟̜̞͕̦̲̫̣̩͉̮̬͖͔͎͓̮̙̤̯͈̙̜̼̼̅̽̇̑͌̒̀̍͊̇͛̃̎͆͆͆̈́͗̑͌́̉̏̿̐̅̓͂̎̍͐̓̈́͜͜͝ͅ
̶̢̢̡̤̭̮̺̥̩̼̝̘̜̙̩̪̳͇͓̟͍̞̘̰̦̭̹̘̫͍̱̻̖̘̯̗̮̘͖̲̲̜͕̞̳͎͆̔̿̿̿͐͋͛̏̔̉̈́̈́̅̽̎̕͜͜ͅM̵̢̡̡̛̛̛̞̙̹̖͕̣͎̼̺͖̞̥̦̯̪̰̈̽͛͛͛̌̍̓͂̔̓̒͂͋̒͗̿̇̋͛͂̊̂̀́̓͊̅̊͒̂̀̋̒͑̚̚͝͝͝ͅͅÂ̷̛̛͍̣͖͕͔̬̽͂̑́̾͑̿̇̎́́̃͊͑̈͋́̑̂̈́̈́̂̀̓͑̿̚͝K̴̡̡̨̜͈͈͖̣̻̞̼͕̟͙̗̗̟̞̜͇̜̪̜̞̺̥̫̳̫̪͓͊̉̉̆͊̃̓̎̽̇̉̋̂͛̚̕͘̚͜ͅĘ̴̧̛̛̹̰̖̲̹̰͉̪̭̦̟͙̯̣̣̼̩̠̦̀̈́͊̾̍̑̌̈́͛̑́͌͂͗̐͐̄̉̽͒́̑͐̉́̈̅̓̔̑͌̈́͗͋̕͜͠͝͝ͅ ̷̛̛̲̟͍̝͇̖͎̪̑̄͐̂̐͛̎͌̇̔̅̄̈́͆̍̓̉̃̀̍̿̐̾͂̓̑͛͊̋̑̃̚̚͝͠͠͠I̷̼͓͙͇̻̞͙͓͈͛͗͑̌̎͋̂̀̂́̂̚͝͝͝T̵̨̧͈̙̞̝̫̪̦̮͔̠͎̟̪̤̟̮͙͔̗̱̯̼̙̮̮̰̣̭͙̦̙̥̟̟̄͛͌̌̄̔̒͌̊̇͛̿̈́̅́̈̽͒̌̑̊͘ͅ ̷̧̧̢͙̗̤̬̬̘̹̱̤̰͉̲̼͍͓̝̼̠̞̞̦̫̞̥̼͎̘͈͎̘̠̟̹̦̤̜̼̻̤̈̓̑̕͜͜͝ͅS̷͙̮̬̤͓͇͙̺̯͇̫͓͍̥̆̉̈̄͑͊͑̋̄̔̂͑̒̎̌̐̀͠Ť̴̢̨̛̤̱̹̬̘͕̖̹̰͎̟͈̬̞̬̟̩̫̠̞̇̍̇̊̑͗̇͂̓̀̾̈́́̂̐̄̕͜͝͝ͅȎ̷̡͚̫̟̬͉͔̘͓̤̘͔̗̞̩͇͈̲̤͚̲͍̎͑̓͜ͅP̶̡̧͎͉̗͚̥͍͈͉̞̈̓̏̃̈́̅̌́̉͑͒̐͜͝.̴̧̨̢̛͈͇̰͓͇̬̖̝̖̜͎̝̪̣̯̤̝͇͉̫̝̩͙͖̼̜͚̭͕͚̮͔̩͉̝̩͕̲̠̜̠͈̘̰͍̀̊͂́͊̈́̇̊̾͒̓̈́̑̑̇̈̑̐͋̓̿̂͐͒̇͌̅͋̑̍͋̂̓̑̾̍̄͘͝͠ ̸̢̧̡̖̫͕̙͇͓͚͇͇̼͕̞̞͙̋̊̆͐̿̃͑́́͆̆̃͊͑̉̎̀̔̒̃̈́̕͝M̷̢̲͕̬͕̣̫̞̙͔͇̪͕͔͎͌̈́͒̂͒̀̎͑̌̾̅̈́̄̃̕͘͜͝A̸̢̛͔͚̦̣̜͈̜͕͍̰̼̫͖̩̬̦̝̠̱͚̟̜̣̰͙͕̙̯̬̥̺͖̼̗̱̔̿̀̓̐̿̔̓͂̏͗̓̓͒̄̍͂͌͋͘ͅĶ̵̢̢̱̺͚̗̯̫̬̤̻̹̖͓̗̓̐̎̑̃̌̆̃̄͑̄́̉̊͑̈́̿̾̇͑̃̾̈́͒̋̏̍̂͊̿́̍͝͝͝͝E̸̛͈̘̖̊́́̾̀́̌̃͆̏͌̿̋̋͂͋̊̔̃̍͐̈́͌̽͗̒̈́̉̃̓̿͂̓̌͑̆̊̅̊̽̊̿̄͘̚̚͠͝ ̸̛̯̯̺̆̎̄̐́́̊̆̀̿̎̑͆̍͌̑̽̎̒͌̚͝͝͝͠͝͠I̶̢̡̧̛̛̤̩͓̞̱͇͚̦͉̦̊͋̈́̊̌̑̇͗̋̾̄̀͋̽̈̓̎̾̑͌̚̚͜͝͠͝͝͝T̶̨̳̲̖͍̳̮̹̖͖̮̍̐́̓̍͜͠ ̷̡͍̼̟̲͚̼͔̰̰͓̱̠͍̭̱̟͍̜̱̲͉̈́̂̃̏͛͗̀́̐͌̀̃͊̐́̄̾́̒͑͐̏̊̌̇̾̉͛̇̀̿̿̑̓̒͋͐́́̚͘͘̚͜͝͝S̴̨̡̨̨̢̨͎̖̟̘̩̣̤͈͔̟͕̺̱̣̤͍̮̘͍͕̱̭͉̮͕̜͉̏̈́̑̅̂͋̏͒̽̀̍͗̂̋̄̀͌̒̄̉͆͆̎̆̽͋̕̕̕̕͝͝͝T̸̡̧̢̨̨̹̦̹͖̤̪̜̻̥̮̯͉̳͍͖̘̪̙̙̠̦̰̣̱͙̙͚͈̖̟̲͍̯̼͍͓͕͇̀̅̃̍͑̉̈̈̓́̂̐̒̆̑̑̃͛̓̀̆̒̈̚̕͜͠ͅǪ̴̢̧̧̡̟͍̹̰̻̺͖̯̙̙͍͚̮̖̩̰̻͖̼̥̮͙̭̬̜̔͌̾̀͆̋̓̍̌͜͠ͅP̶̛̛͎̲̠͖̘̱͕̞̎͆̈́̈́͂̅͆̔̒̇̿́̂͑̽͒͊̍͌͂̿͊͒̅̎̕͝ͅ.̶̨̧̧̼̥̲̲̮̮̩̝̟̰̱͚̫̻͓̙͔̫͚̯̘̼̣̗̘͔̯̲̼̼̟̣̥̙͂̂̇͐̊̇̀̑̓̔͊͋̀̕͝ͅ
Foster stared wide eyed at the page. Only able to mouth curses to herself as she tried to read admidst the scribles that destroyed the page in her hand.
Only a single phrase peered through as barely legible: "MAKE IT STOP."
A chill was sent down her spine as she set the papers down, desperately trying to rationalize what she read.
The overwhelming sadness she felt initially shifted to anger. The fact someone could make anyone feel like that...
A wave of nausea pushed her back as she starred at the ceiling in deep consideration.
She wanted to talk about this. But her partner had clearly been through hell and back. She didn't want to drudge up such painful memories again.
She could do exactly what was written on the note, burn it. Never speak of it again. But if she had learned anything through their recent experiences, it was never a good idea to ignore something like this.
Foster looked at the table. Another page was still in the envelope. A lump formed in her throat, unsure if she could physically stomach another page.
She picked up the page.
I met someone today.
I don't know what to think of her, yet. But our first meeting was a positive one.
I'm not sure if I can feel the same way after my previous relationship.
But maybe, just maybe.
I'm willing to give it a try.
On another note, I finally threw out that old clock today. It was the only thing she left me. I assume she hated it as much as I did.
At least I'll never have to hear that clock tick again.