Dear(ly hated) friend,

You're a bitch. I don't like you. You're annoying. Why do I hang out with you? You're pitiful. Fatty. Whore. You make me want to scream.

You tell me all your secrets. Oh, what a bad decision. I slip these to Kelly Finns in the locker room. We smirk (for the gossip that is to come).

You tell me I'm a sweetheart; you of all people should know how people like to pretend (and I'm the pretender).

I listen to you rant. On how people just won't accept the fact that you don't have an inside voice (I know; you like to scream). On how you have to skip two meals every day 'cause your family's not well off (yet somehow you're still overweight). On how you and your boyfriend are almost at the one-year mark (yet everyone but you knows he flirts with anything with boobs when you're not around).

I think these things every day. I think one thing, say another. When I say "Oh, hun, that miniskirt really shows your legs!" I really mean; "Hey, bitch, stop showing off your fat legs, no one wants to see those thighs!"

Everyone, including you, think I'm the nice girl. Really, that make me the meanest out of all or them. At least the others trash you to your face. For me, that's unsatisfying (I prefer to stab you in the back).

You overheard me talking smack about you (I guess that shattered my image).

No that I really care.

You're screaming in my face in front of everyone in every grade at lunch. I stare back with a blank face at your red and furious expression ('cause I don't give a shit).

So I tell you this. And much more. I tell you the truth of everything (how I spread all the rumors, how everyone knows 'bout your boyfriend cheating, how fat you are, everything).

You're crying now. You try to slap me.

I stop you ('cause you're not really fast).

And smile my (oh so sugary, friendly, fake) grin that you used to love. I see the look in your eye (that says you finally see the dark sharpness in it).

You run. From your problems, from your sadness, from me (and I feel superior).

I heard you're in the hospital now. Being treated for psychological problems (that I probably started) that led you to try and kill yourself.

I'm laughing right now ('cause we're both so screwed up).

I'm on death row.

I'll leave you to guess why.

With(out any) love,

V

A/N: This little letter took itself over. It went from a small hate letter to a non-friend I don't really like to a glimpse inside someone royally screwed up. This may seem a bit random, but whatever. I actually kinda like it (although I had no idea how to sign the ending, so i just did a single initial. Cheesy, I know).