Amelia (petitepoet) wrote in kreviazukfans,

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not-so-typical fan letter.

I'm a member of this community already, although you won't recognize this user name.  My old one was yet_untold.  I may be dumb, but how do you delete old unwanted LJ accounts?


I was just cleaning out my bedroom for the upcoming school year (I'm in grade 11) and I came across a letter I wrote to Chantal (without intent of actually sending it) back in November of '04.  I'd like to share it with you guys.

Dear Chantal,


            Writing to you feels just like writing solely for my eyes (and not only because I know you’ll never actually read this).  Your personality matches what I wish mine could be.  You’re passionate, talented, and you have the most genuine sense of humor. I was blessed to see you in concert;I really admire your character.

            Erf.  Now I sound like one of those crazed fans who stalk celebrities.

            From what I remember, however, you do not consider yourself to be a celebrity.  That is so gracious of you.  These days, everyone is seeking fame and fortune, rather than personal fulfillment.  Isn’t that sad?

            Part of me doesn’t want to write (let alone think) about what this reminds me of, but I’ll never get it off my mind if I don’t.  Ironic how I’m listening to your song “Surrounded” as I force my pen across the page.

            The bomb was dropped on Monday, October 13, 2003.  Today, thirteen months and thirteen days later, I still hear, fight, fear, and hate it.

            Around four that afternoon, as I was just leaving with my mom for an appointment, the call came for me.  Literally.

            It was Laura.

            I froze as Mom handed me the phone, and told me to make it quick.  Laura never called at this hour, let alone on a weekday.  She lives in Clinton Township, about twenty minutes from my home in Grosse Pointe, Michigan.  We met in second grade before she moved away, and we are as close as sisters.  We keep in touch via e-mail, Instant Message, and occasionally, a long, late-night telephone conversation on the weekends.

            Alarm bells sounded like sirens in my brain when she called me that day.

            “Hi Hon,” I said as casually as I could, putting the receiver to my ear.

            A few moments elapsed before she spoke.

            Ames, Jamie killed herself last night.”  Her voice shook tremulously, trying to hide the brutal truth of her words behind thick emotion.

            Her efforts failed, and  once her words had sunken in, I felt my breath catch, and I was hit by a bomb that sent ice through my veins, turning me into a corpse, if only for a moment.  It felt like an eternity.

            It was an eternity for Jamie.

            Jamie was one of Laura’s friends from school.  She was typecast as a “punk,” but Laura didn’t judge her. 

            Ultimately, Jamie judged herself.

            Will love ever be enough?  Or will people like Jamie search for it so desperately that it will go unnoticed, buried beneath the debris of materialism, slowly dying until the weight is just too much?


Amelia Nicole


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