Letters | ✓

3 | three

Christopher Bang
Barrennjoey Road,
Sydney,
Australia.

March 13, 1960

Dear Christopher,
      I plead to apologize for my conveyed attitude yesterday.

      I simply grew justifiably vexed, pondering on all of the psychological liabilities faced thus far. But you cannot possibly blame me. It is truly painful, how you hampered my heart, and how the aftermath of your death is almost proudly adding to the depth of my pain.

      I am in a dark place; a heavy, downtrodden woman wailing at the bottom of your boat. And it shortens my speech, how you chose to bluntly object to the rescue of my choked emotions, most likely to feed your pride. But your boat sank, did it not? And although I made it out alive, you, the primary cause, went down with it, leaving poor Adelaide to bear the relentless shock of your passing.

      And now, my memory has been jogged to surface the conversations that we engaged in as a couple, pertaining to our future. All of the voyages that we planned together, as soon as you would master your skill in sailing, to be able to cover far distances.

      It is peculiar, how the death of a man whom I loathe to such a magnified extent could affect me such a great deal. I began writing these letters to aid in the process of my healing, but thus far, my wound has only been infected.

      Haply I should stop. However, I would not have even thought to begin if I had some other person to speak with. Anna and I no longer hold relation, apart from the undeniable fact that we are blood sisters. But the betrayal that the both of you performed would not allow me to remain civilized if I were to communicate with her. Yet still, I spend my hours writing these letters to you. Hypocrisy.

      But neither can I seek the company of the man whom I was betrothed to, as I consider him to be what the city's sports men call a rebound. I never truly looked up to him as a man worth getting married to, and I would bet mother's garden that he holds the unspoken lifestyle of a womanizer.

      In fact, I am of the belief that either of us were rebounds, and his concubines continuously succeeded in their aim for the basket, whilst you on the other hand, sat and awaited the end of the ball season.

      The thought of coming to your part of Sidney has crossed my mind. Just to view your yard once more, or at least visit the seaside and bask under the sunset. But I am certain that I would miss you. And the grains of sand would feel like irksome pebbles in between my toes without your arm around my shoulder.

      The song of the waves would seem a fright in the absence of your soft tune in my ears, harmonized by the whistling of the wind.

      Damn it.

      I cannot deceive with the false claim that I do not miss you, Christopher. I miss you immensely.

      I pray that you have a good day or night in heaven or hell.

Sincerely,
A.