Her name was Pamela. Pamela... something. She was a student in Unimas. Or I thought she was. I couldn't remember clearly. I was too numb from the prozac and my horrible life back then. She's sent there for her counselling course training.
I pity her, a woman with so much disposition. Happy young woman. And she is - by her own sense of pity to me, or by force that she is the sole counsellor in the fucking college - one of the many people who tried to get me out of my depression.
But then again counsellors have excellent self-control. I know this, I've got a best friend taking that same course.
She asked me to tell her about myself. I tell her a story. She wants a story, they all want a story. There once lived a happy princess from a faraway land... then she became a whore for the society and a minstrel for the sadistic. The end.
I pity her.
She asked me to draw shit. Explain some shit. Point some shit out.
I pity her, because at that time, I was numb; I knew I was foolish. But it was already too late. I pity her.
I wish I could find her again, and tell her how much she'd helped me out. I wish I could tell her I deleted all her messages that she sent me before I read them back then, and I was sorry.
I am sorry for the numerous things I downed through my throat instead of her words. I was too numb.
I'm sorry Pamela.