Dear Miffy by John Marsden Page A

about something like this? As if everything else that’s happened to me isn’t enough, now they have to go and add this to the list. It’s too much, Miff, it’s just too fucking much. If they were setting out to break me, and that’s what I reckon sometimes, then they’ve just about done it now. They can go home tonight feeling proud, like they’ve achieved something. ‘How was your day, dear?’ ‘Good thank you, darling. We finally did it today; we finally destroyed that little bastard Tony. It’s taken us a long time but we’ve done it at last. God, it was good, we actually had him crying and begging, it was fair up him I reckon: he’s been asking for it long enough. But we sure got him a good one. Ha ha ha. Get us a beer will you, love.’
    The whole world’s against you, Miff, against everyone, I mean, that’s what I’ve learned. Your life’s a solo run, and even the crowd that’s cheering want you to fall over. They love you when you win but they love it even better when you lose. I used to think I’d be a winner one day, Miff, but now I know I’m the biggest loser ever. I’ve set new records for losing. I’m such a loser I’m a winner—the world champion at losing. Joke, hey? Shit, that’s two jokes in one letter. Funny how when I’m crying is when I start making jokes. Maybe I am fucking sick. Better quit before I make another joke. Three in one letter might be a bit much even for you. And if these cunts find out about them they’ll have me in that psych unit for sure.
    Tony
    Dear Miff,
    I haven’t written to you in so long. No fucking wonder, I’ve been too fucked in the head to pick up a pen. This fucking ward’s a crazy place all right, but not as bad as I thought it would be. Some of the kids are all right. It’s only some of the adults who are really psycho.
    They’re all so shit scared of me, though. I don’t know what it is, being in this thing maybe. Or maybe someone told them about me. Or maybe it’s just me: that’s the kind of person I am, a monster. Little kids scream and run when they see me. That’d figure. Why wouldn’t they? Anyway, whatever it is, no-one comes near me. It’s strange that: I can’t get used to being a monster, but I go with it, I’m not going to fight it, if that’s how they want it then fuck them, let them see me that way.
    Turns out I’m not even meant to be here because it’s minimum security; well, it’s no security really, but I guess they think I’m safe. Anyway Hilary, the social worker, reckons it’s some great big deal getting me in, like I’m meant to be grateful! Grateful! Oh yeah, I’m fucking grateful. I’ll be writing a thank you letter to the Department, no worries. Thank you for putting me in the nuthouse, really good of you, thanks a lot.
    There’s this girl here, reminds me of you a bit, Miff, talks like you, posh accent and all that. When she does talk, which is about once a week. We’ve got that in common. She’s nice looking but I don’t think she’s going to be dropping round to see me too often.
    Just listening to them all talking about each other, which is like their favourite hobby, their full-time occupation, they reckon her dad was some real rich cunt, real famous, in the papers and all that, only now he’s in the slammer, so it’s fair up his bum.
    That’s where your dad should be.
    This place is pretty fucking slack you know. It’s a lot better than the facility. You don’t have to do anything if you don’t want, especially me, because they’re scared of me. And the food’s all right, not bad anyway. Like tonight it was chicken Kiev and cherry pie and you could have any flavour ice-cream you wanted. Hell of a lot better than at my uncle and aunt’s, that’s for sure. My aunt was the worst fucking cook.