#sidma

What is there to say? I suppose this is where I should start off with how much I do love you dearly, and how this Hell-Hole hasn't been quite like it usually is, without you to come back to. However, I think we are both well aware that that isn't quite my scene. Regardless, this bloody festive season has got me thinking— and what a dangerous thing, that does prove to be.

We've been dating for what, like eighteen months now? Which, given, is quite a miraculous length of time, for the likes of myself. But I've come to realise that you don't really know all that much about me. I mean, of course you know me— it would be ridiculous to insinuate that you didn't. But when it comes down to it, you don't know anything past the Yzma Valentino you met a few years ago.

When I moved to California, it wasn't because I wanted to. I had a life in Peru, which frankly, was ripped away from me. I suppose, in a psychologists point of view, that would have been the ‘triggering moment', which set me off, full force, down a downwards spiral. Reading back on what I've just wrote, I do realise that this awfully depressing for a so called Christmas letter, but just trust me, this all ties in with your present.

So you know that in the April of this year, I went back to Peru— and I never really explained as to why. Well, I went to go see my dad. Or I suppose, in the rightful terminology, what's left of him. I've never told you this, nor have I told anyone else, but when my dad and Uncle passed, it was my fault. Maybe one day I'll give you the full story, but lucky for you, that's not today.

Now, to get back in theme with this god-awful holiday, that is continuously shoved down my throat, no matter where I go, it’s about time you got your present. Before I do that, however, I’d just like to break character for all of two seconds, and tell you that I’m so disgustingly happy that you’re back, and well, it would be in your best interests if you didn’t leave again this time. But hey— what’cha gonna do? Right?

Well, with love, Merry Christmas; from your one and only,

Yzma Valentino

That’s still a thing?

Don't freak out, I haven't just packed up and left. I'm not that cruel, believe it or not. I'm going home— and when I say home, I don't mean California, I mean Peru. There's some stuff that I just have to do, okay? I'm only going to be gone, like, a month or so— no need to move on quite yet.

I'd tell you why I'm going, but I don't really want to. I mean, it's a long story, and my hand already hurts, so I'm not going to put it through the pain of writing such a sad boring story.

Now, I haven't just abandoned you, not matter how much you might just take off so there are somethings dotted around the place. In your fridge, under the bag of M&M's there's a key. I can already feel you judging me, so stop. It's the key to my dorm. The fridge is the only place I remember, get over it. In there, you'll find a decent supply of liquors and cigarettes, and your red hoodie that I stole, just in case you need it. I'm only going to say it once, do not eat my pop tarts— I will fucking castrate you, and you know I'll do it. If, for some reason, you feel like buying me food, or any cute shoes (size six, biyatch) feel free to do so.

Now, here's the important part— apparently, you're not allowed to take dogs on a plane. Such a bitch, I know. So I'm going to need to you look after Butterscotch. I don't mind if you choose to take her to your dorm, or just visit her daily, but if you kill my dog, I will kill you.

Important memo #2— don't forget about Hannah. I actually worry about her Sid. She needs you, so try to be around. Just a little? I know I'm probably crossing a line here, but hey, I'm Yzma, it's what I do.

So, I guess this is the part where I say I'll miss you, and that I love you, but I don't want to be sappy. Because sappy is gross, and under very few situations (read: The Notebook) will I tolerate it. So I'm just going to say bye— don't stain my beautiful letter with your tears.

Bye.

I'll miss you.

I love you.

Your one and only,

Send me a “Stay” and I’ll write a drabble about one character making the other promise that they will stay with them.

If there was one thing that Sid Phillips did, that beyond everything else made Yzma feel like something other than a heartless bitch, was when he would lay with her, in silence – preferably just after mind-blowing sex.

What had once left her feeling uneasy was now a complete source of comfort. The ease in lying against Sid, shaped against his body in a way that two pieces from a jigsaw puzzle might, left Yzma with the sense of security and safety. It wasn’t often that she felt as though she had to rely on someone else; however Yzma could enjoy the internal warmth that Sid gave her.

With her head lying against his chest, moving slowly with his soft breaths, Yzma felt an unadulterated relaxation as Sid ran his fingers through her mess of brown hair. Idly, her fingers traced shaped on his upper arm – every now and then, her fingers trailing down to his hand. There were many things that still remained left unsaid between the two misshapen teenagers. Each with problems of their own, and some that they managed to share; things like the ‘L Word’ didn’t seem necessary. The fact that they were both here, with each other was the only thing that mattered. Tilting her head up slightly, so that she could look him in the eye without completely craning her neck, Yzma let her lips turn upright to form a soft smile. The silence that had settled between them wasn’t uncomfortable, however, neither of them were relying on it. Words didn’t need to be spoken, but the moment that was shared between them would be shattered upon speech. Yzma bit down on her lip, just hard enough to leave little indents in her gum that her tongue could run over.

“I-I promise”, she said, however closer to a whisper, “I promise not to fuck everything up. I know that I said that I do, because, let’s face it, I’m Yzma Valentino. But this? I lov-like, like, this and I want to keep it. I want to keep you”.

Sid didn’t say anything. He kissed her, gently, on the forehead, and pulled her in, impossibly closer than she already was – and that, surprisingly, was enough for Yzma.