amf3988 / Member

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Dear Comstock

(Not sure how to post the picture, but I have the link: Dear Comstock, As I sit here writing to you, I am thinking about all of the ways I am going to die. The child in me kicks and rolls as though he is urging me forward. Im sorry, its a she. Isnt that what you said? You said it would be a woman, and may the Founders help her for it. I cant picture the child to be a woman because all I end up doing is picturing myself curling in my own belly, waiting for the moment I will be loosed upon the world. Perhaps thats narcissistic. She may not look like me at all. She may look like you, and now Im picturing you in my dresses and its making me giggle, and I think your daughter is giggling, too. I shouldnt laugh when thinking about death, but it will come for me eventually, so I think, Why not laugh at least a little? I think death appreciates a little humor now and then. Id like to think you do as well. I remember that moment lying in bed after you were finished, and you said, The seed has been planted. Let me tell you, dearest, I almost died of laughter. You want to know what else is funny? What you told me about the people, how you said they would mourn for days after I died. Your people never thought twice to look at me, how could they possibly care whether or not I am still here? I see them in droves, blank, faceless, much like the child that stirs in my womb. I do not see them crying, I only see them kicking each other until one man (because it's always a man) claims to be the first to mourn. Be sure to tell whoever it is that I adore purple flowers. I wont settle for anything less. Speaking of memorials, dont you think the large image of my face on The First Lady is a bit excessive? Everyone is going to constantly look up at me and not meet my eyes because I was looking at the bloody artist. How was I supposed to know that was to be put on an aerodome? I supposed you didnt want your people to think that I was looking down on them in any fashion. But I do look down on them. I look down on them every day from up here in my little cloud. How could I not? I must say I do not envy you. When I see them frolicking with their children, or strolling about to take in the afternoon sunshine, you only see how it will end. You are always the first to know. I wonder how you live with it. Its not enough to change how I feel about you, but its enough to grant me pause. Its enough to keep me awake during long hours of the night while you sleep with your back to me, muttering about a False Shepherd. You said the False Shepherd will be the end of Columbia. Another funny point: you seem to want him to. The hours are winding down, now. The end of my seventh day. Inside me, your daughter rolls and tumbles restlessly as though she is ready to burst free. By now you are wondering why I wrote to you, even though you already know that I have, and even though you already know the words that will be on the page before I do. I must confess that, as I draw closer to the end of my life and this letter, I find myself feeling nostalgic for simpler times, for simpler ways of telling someone I love you or I hate you or I miss you. And even though you practically wrote the words for me, the thought of you physically reading them makes the thought of my death sting a little less. Yours until then, Lady Comstock *For the Bioshock Infinite Writing Contest*