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Blair closed her eyes as she lay back, the phone cradled against her chest as if it were a newborn baby that needed protecting. She tried to imagine just what it was like to hold a baby, to feel it's breath against her breasts. It took only moments for her imagination, her simple distraction, to dance back to the shoebox that rest on the coffee table inches from her. She bit at her lip as her stomach tightened and her heart began to pound. She could almost see through the box, could imagine those thick envelopes that hid their handmade paper with their horrendous cursive words. She felt a sob rise in her throat and struggled to strangle it, trying to fight the urge to cry. Beside the shoebox in which she kept the dreaded letters lay a postcard from her aunt who lay overseas, a late birthday note and a simple informing as to how her cousins were doing. Blair reached toward it now, staring at the photograph upon the little piece of card. It was of three small children, two little boys and a sweetly innocent girl. Behind them stood rows upon rows of strawberry plants, the kind that always grew outstandingly large. The kind Blair spent three dollars for a tiny box of them down at the supermarket every Friday. The three children, her aunt's kids, looked blissfully happy. They didn't receive letters, she knew, not letters like the ones she got, anyhow.
Maybe, Blair thought, maybe she could just pack up and leave. Go and live with her aunt for a while, until she could get a job, a place of her own. She smiled faintly. It was a hopeful idea, something that was maybe worth smiling over. Considering a little more. She glanced at the shoebox and felt the smile flee from her lips. Maybe she might just go. Pack up tonight, leave... it was a thought.
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