Dear Miffy by John Marsden

somehow. He’s not the swearing type.
    I still can’t get over him coming here, but. I mean Hammond, God, no bastard gave me a harder time than he did and there wasn’t no bastard I gave a harder time to than him. Tell you what, if he was in a place like this I wouldn’t have visited him. I would have fucking celebrated. Bit sick, hey? But then I always was a sick bugger.
    I did make a bit of an effort in gym today though, Miff. You would have been proud of me. Fucking Len just about fell over. Just as long as he doesn’t think I’m going to make a habit of it.
    See ya,
    Tony
    Dear Miff,
    You know what these cunts want now? They want to send me to a fucking psych unit. Good one. Real good one. That’s all I need: to be told I’m psycho. They’re fucking psycho themselves, if you ask me. Half the fucking staff are weird. I mean who’d want to work in a fucking dump like this, anyway? You’d have to be sick in the head, hanging around all day with fucking retards like us. Fucking bastards, fuck them all, I hate the lot of them, I won’t talk to them and they reckon it’s because I’m psycho. Well, it’s not. It’s because they’re fucking retards themselves. And now I hate them even more. That’s the last time I make any effort, the last time I try in gym or do any fucking thing for them. I mean, geez, Miff, last week fucking Dillon said he’d heard I was improving, and now this. There’s no way I’m going there, no fucking way. I don’t care what they do, they can’t make me, I’ll fucking yell the fucking place down. That’s the trouble with being this way, you’ve got no fucking control. But I swear, even if they fucking drag me there I’ll make their lives so fucking miserable that they’ll have me back here before they’ve even changed the sheets on my fucking bed. I absolutely totally swear that on the fucking Bible or any other fucking book you want to name, that is the truth, so help me God. I know what it’ll be like, all these fucking crazies out of their trees, hanging off the ceiling telling you they’re Elvis Presley or something. I’m not psycho, Miff, I swear. I know I’m not. I don’t belong in a place like that. I am not not not not not going there. I can’t Miff, I’d die in a place like that. I’d just lie right down and die.
    Oh God, Miff, I can’t believe how I’ve messed up: how much I’ve totally fucked up my life. I mean, geez, Miff, look at me, I’m only fucking sixteen and already my life is totally wrecked. How could I have made such a mess of everything, Miff? I didn’t mean to. I didn’t mean any of this, it just happened, I don’t know how. I still don’t know how I got it so wrong. I’m sorry about your mum, Miff. I didn’t want to hurt her, I never wanted to hurt anyone, I’ve got this terrible temper, you know that. I was just born with it, I guess. It’s got me in so much trouble. I wish I could cut it out and throw it away, like, amputate it. These fucking counsellors here, they go on and on about all the things you can do in the future, and I don’t even listen. I don’t give a flying fuck. I don’t want any of them, I just want things to be back the way they were. I want to be lying with you on your bed again, with your body all hot under me and your tits pressing into me. Like I said before, I’ll probably never have sex with anyone again, and without sex I reckon there’s no fucking life anyway. And in a psych ward, what’s going to happen? Like I know I’m not psycho now, but who knows? After a week in there I’ll be dribbling down my chin and having some nurse feeding me with a spoon and me not knowing whether I’m the Pope or Captain Caveman or Flipper the fucking dolphin. And I’m not fucking joking, Miff. I wish I could joke about it but how can you joke