Dear M,

She got away. The third one. She had a soft voice. Her skin wasn't as soft. And she was young. Oh, very young. He played with her too much. And she was already mad, you see? Very, very mad. He broke her, M. And then she snapped. And I had no choice. She had become vicious. Animal, almost. Her once big, blue doe eyes that looked up with innocence had turned bleak and harsh. Her mouth, that was once hummed songs, pulled back into a violent line- as if she was a monster from a book, snarls ripping out of her. Her mind was gone. What was left of was inhumane. This might be my last letter in a while, M. Love, your baby, your love, your dear.

I know the story is very scattered at the moment ;-; my apologies.