The letter reached me today. I thought it was lost somewhere in the post. But here I stand, with the letter in my own calloused hands. The postman just handed it over to me. I guess he was surprised to see me at my doorstep so early in the morning.
He has been delivering letters to me for the last 6 months. Since I returned from the war. He knows me well now. But I prefer not to talk to him much. I bet he thinks I'm some cranky dude who gets regular letters from his beloved.
I bet the whole neighborhood knows about my notorious beloved who never forgets to write me letters.
I sit by the sofa near the fireplace. It's my favorite spot. I open the letter. I recognize the slanted handwriting instantly. I check the date. Just a month ago. This letter was written just a month ago.
Just like all the previous letters it lacks any salutations. However the letter begins on a familiar note.
"Today, I drank my morning coffee without sugar. It was bitter. It reminded me of you. It reminded me of myself. And so, I'm gonna write all those things again. Things I have asked you a hundred times."
Suddenly I feel warm. It's still twilight. I haven't opened the windows. I haven't lit the fire. The living room is as humid as a swamp. But I feel warm. I smile. It is a familiar warmness.
"I am so sorry. I know that I have apologized before. And I know you claimed that you forgave me but still, I want you to know that I am sorry"
My smile doesn't waver but my heart does. It's written sincerely, I can tell. And all I can think is, how desperate the words sound.
"I know what you've been through. I've been through all of it too. I know how melancholy has become an unwanted guest in your house. I know better than anyone that sorrow does not come with a spy but with a battalion"
My hands are so cold that I can't feel them, but my heart is on fire. I can feel the heat in my chest. It's just a blaze. Nothing strong. Strange, what some silly words can do.
"I'm sorry not because I'm guilty but because I'm not. I could do something. And I didn't."
Words stung. I knew it. But I feel it now. It was true. He could've done something. But he didn't. I was so angry at him.
"I know you're angry. I agree you should be angry. But for your own sake forgive me."
My heart isn't just on fire. It no longer is a small blaze. It feels like it is in a furnace. And the heat continues to increase every minute. And I can smell it. I can sniff the smell of a burning heart. A piece of meat being roasted. The crisp black cyst accumulating on the surface.
"Forgive me for not being there when I should've had. Forgive me for lying those sweet fantasies to you. Forgive me for giving you false hopes when there were none. Forgive me for neglecting you for others. Forgive me for being so cruel to you, even though I knew I was the only one who could've been kind, still I chose to hate you, to despise you when you only deserved to be loved. By nobody else but me. I should've loved you then. Because I knew you had no one but me. And I had no one but you. And I made mistakes, and I'm so sorry and all I want for you is to forgive me"
I can sense the heat rising in my chest. I feel as if smoke is filling inside my chest. I can't breathe properly. My eyes sting from the burned soot. I know my face is getting redder and redder. I continue to read.
"You and I both know that the only thing we can do for us, is to forgive. In this whole wide world, where people are having the privilege of meeting other people and falling in love and starting new chapters, we both know that we have no one but ourselves. And it hurts so much that I cannot fathom it. I know how it feels when people have unrealistic expectations from you and then they say you've changed and they say when will you go back to yourself?
I know that you can't tell them that you've killed yourself. You've killed yourself with your bare hands"
I think I am choking. My heart is burning. And yet it is beating. It is beating so loudly that my whole house can hear it. I don't stop reading.
"How do you tell them that the "you" they are looking for is dead. Do we even have a choice but to kill ourselves again and again until there is nothing left but a hollow void empty of love and desires. But I don't want you to die. I don't want you to kill yourself. Because I know you didn't deserve all the unhappiness you bore. That's why I beg you. Forgive me. Forgive me so that you will get rid of that burden on your shoulders. Forgive me. Forgive me.
Sincerely,
Grayson."
The letter ends. Another letter of nothing but apologies. And I am no longer seated in my chair. I am on the floor. On my knees. I am aware of the tears that roll down my cheeks. It is as if they are dropping on that burned heart of mine and with each tear, my heart hisses with pain.
I am in agony. I am suffering. My heart is on fire.
I throw the letter away in the grate. I see it burning to ashes. Just like all the previous letters. These letters are not like my heart. They do not survive being ripped apart and burned. They simply turn to nothing. I wish the same could be said about my heart.
The bell rings. I wipe the tears with my palms. And answer the door.
It was Mrs. Klefkey, our neighbor.
"Oh I was afraid you weren't home either", she says,"have you seen Dora anywhere?"
"No, I'm sorry Mrs. Klefkey", I reply, shaking my head.
"I wonder where that dog went", she says, rubbing her hands. "Sorry for the inconvenience, Mr. Grayson".
She turns around and leaves. I shut the door behind her and turn to my writing desk.
It would take many more letters to myself to forgive me.
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