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Quality Bond
Quality Bond
by Charlie Fish 2005

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Hello! How do you do? I finally found the time to sit down and write to you. Sorry for my poor English, but I will give my best.

Things have been hectic since I moved to England. I had a telephone sales job in London for one month - I was lucky to receive it soon after moving here - but I had to get away from it. My boss was a little too friendly, if you know what I mean...

I came to Birmingham since three weeks. Another new city with nothing except the backpack on my back. I am staying in a hostel at the moment, and I look for jobs.

I am signing up to all the recruitment agencies, and I already did many interviews, but you know how it goes. They always say they will get back to you. The annoying thing is I know I am capable, but each time I am rejected I doubt myself more.

I felt very lonely since I was here. I am so glad to have you to write to.

Recently I felt like everybody that passes me in the street is judging me. I know they are not, but sometimes I long for one of them to stop and say hello. I feel like I have not been able to connect with anyone since I am here. It was not better in Finland, but at least I had some friends there.

I am not speaking with anyone in Finland since I left. I want to separate myself from what happened. But it makes me feel very vulnerable. I feel like I cannot trust anyone.

I am trying to make friends, but how do you meet good people when you do not have money? I wish that I had the confidence to walk into a place and start talking to someone. It would be such a relief to have someone around to support me.

All I wanted was a fresh beginning, a clean slate. But I feel like my soul is broken. I feel like I have left pieces of myself behind. I am an empty shell, and I am afraid of being filled again.

Why can't someone give to me a good job? Why can't I meet some friendly people? Am I such an evil person? I don't know what to do.

I don't know what to do.

Hope you are well.

Yours Faithfully,


Anya signed her name and skimmed her eyes across the letter again. She carefully wrote her return address in the top-right corner of the page and then paused her pen at the top of the letter.

After some thought, she wrote:

To Whomever Reads This.

She neatly folded the lightly scented Quality Bond notepaper and tucked it into a blank envelope.

She walked tensely to the postbox, as if she was struggling with the weight of hope and sadness inside. She posted the diminutive envelope through the slot.

As she let go of the letter, her chin curled. For a moment, she battled hard to keep it in, but then her rage and frustration spilled out. She doubled up, unable to disguise her quaking sobs.

The flow of people around her continued, offering nothing more than disapproving glances.

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