Three: Read this Letter When You Have to Name Something

   I had no money.
   Penniless me. Penniless Sarah Roswell.

  Sarah. So plain. So boring. So blah. I had to hide, I had to, they'd find me, wouldn't they, with a name like Sarah? The voices said it was too plain to work. When people picked fake names, they wanted something to blend in, so they went with Sarah or Mary or Hannah. I needed something better. Something my stupid mind wouldn't stupidly use when I was panicked.
   The naming process is hard. I'm not sure if you'll ever have to name something. If you do, I think if you do, a pet, a human, some inanimate object like a plush toy, then that's good. It means you have something.
   I wasn't sure what else to name myself. I'd used Elaine. Used Sarah. The list of names I couldn't use, the list of names I'd run away from, was longer than my hair had been. Running away was good. Made me less dumb, the voice said. Pretentious Petunia. Ugly Ursula. Icky Isabella. What would I name myself? Sylvia... Like Plath? The voice criticized. Sylvia Roswell? I needed a new surname. Brown? Green? No colors. Smith? Stone? Griffin? Griffin.
   Sylvia Griffin.
   This is what I will tell people.
   This is how I will sign my letters.
   I would write to someone else, yet I have no one else to write too. Even if I did, would they read them? Will you read them? Tarnished, my reputation, the voices say. People with tarnished reputation do not have people whop read their letters.
   I am running out of stationary. This is my third letter to you, but it is the tenth time I've started it. I'm stupid, stupid, stupid. Horrid, horrible, bad. I'm told this everyday, yet that doesn't mean I cannot write good letters to you. My letters to you need to be good. Even if you don't read them, I'll know I'm giving you something good.

   What do you do when you have no money, are squatting in a an abandoned cabin, your skin sliced with stolen razors? I have been away for a week. They have not found me. They might, no they will, the voices say. I found a box, half full of whole wheat crackers, in one of the cabin. The crackers were stale, they tasted like cardboard. Yet I ate them. Four a day. Three if I was feeling particularity worthless, none if the voices said I was ugly.

What I needed:
   Stationary.
   Rice crackers (instead of whole wheat ones). Low calorie.
   Shampoo. Soap only works so well.
   Rubbing alcohol. The cuts were getting deeper.
   Ink pens. Mine were drying up.
   Multivitamins. Not food, at least I would still have nutrients.
   A water filterer. The tap water was dirty, grimy.
   Fabric. Something that I could use as a towel and a blanket. Autumn was coming.

   The convenience store might have shampoo, pens, but not fabric, I had to have fabric, the stove only heated up the room so much, not vitamins. Stealing, I'd only done it once, seemed significantly more difficult when the person you were stealing from wasn't high. The voices lectured me, I was writing, stating the obvious. Like a dumb person. The say, who ever they are, the they chasing me and the they who say are different- another stupidly obvious statement- they say that creativity stems from necessity. I suppose I will have to start being creative.

With Love,
   Sylvia Griffin

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