Foolishly Falling for You

24

Anita

The last letter he sent was 3 weeks ago. I would've assumed the messenger was just taking a while because of the journey, but Michael's wife received a letter from him.

I try not to think about it. I told him to die, maybe he did, so what? What do I care? So maybe...maybe he sent me the letter I always dreamed of to just—to up and die. That's probably good. I felt a breeze. A gust passed me by.

I felt myself sway a bit.

I plant my feet firm, and bare into the planks of wood that make up the floors of this home that I have fed my tears and blood to. I remind myself that I have not abandoned some great hope, some joyous love. I have let go of what was never mine.

Something is brewing inside me, filling my gut like hot lava bubbling up, blistering my insides. It's a scream. Maybe a scream I've been holding onto for years. His letter is crumbled in my hand, as I let go of it. I can't get past him. Why can't I just get past him? Forget him! Move on!

I'm still in my nightgown from last night. I couldn't sleep, wondering, desperately if he'd made it. I realize I'm still screaming when I feel my raw throat, begging me to stop.

My fingers search for things to break, trying to get this out, this feeling this buzzing energy. Trying to break the hold it has on me—that he has on me. And I was doing so well.

Whatever my fingers touch I break. Vases, lamps. My nails sink into the paint of the portrait on the wall, my fingernails burning as they fill with it, red and blue and yellows all mixing to brown.

How. How can this be?

I shouldn't care.
I don't...

And then it stops. My mind goes still, and my heart keeps pounding, a high pitched buzz in my ear. My eyes flutter, shuddering the light and I just smile a little bit.

I'm not sure why.

I love to read. It takes up space. When you read, you're so busy saying the words in your mind that your mind can't think of anything else. It's translating words into a world for you. It quiets all other thoughts. It seals off the universe and births a new one, with only good things with good endings and everything is at it should be, and at the end—and there's an end and you know where it is—it's good.

It's good, it's happy and everything happened exactly as it should've and it's all resolved in the best way possible.

Sometimes I think maybe god is just not a good author. There are plot holes here. And where does it end and why? How many chapters do I have and why can't I tell if it's the beginning, the middle or the end? If it is the beginning, I can excuse the turmoil, better things are coming. If it is the middle, this is the climax and I am even closer still to being happy.

But if this is end...why am I not happy? Nothing is resolved. I am hurtling toward the end of my rope with nary a happy end in sight.

My eyes rove over his letter unseeing.

He writes so beautifully. His love is violence. I have finally...I have finally received it, and I worry that a word like love may be more dangerous than any war.

What am I meant to do with it?

I feel the paint under my nails. It burns. My scars ache. I cannot decipher the strokes of his letters anymore. It's quiet. The maids have scattered. What must they think of me?

Hm. It doesn't matter.

It was a door, I suppose. This letter. A door, creaked half open. I would've walked through it, given the chance. I could barely catch a glimpse of what was inside it before it slammed shut.

"Ma'am?"

I glance up. One of the older maids stands over me, concerned. She kneels next to me, and lifts my strap from my arm onto my shoulder.

"You have a visitor. Sir Michael, Admiral Lance's friend. He says it's urgent."

That buzzing won't go away. I nod, and stand.

"He's in the sitting room. I have tea prepared. Would you like me to tell him that you need a moment—"

I shake my head. "I'll see him now."

I pad into the drawing room. Michael sits, looking distraught, a teacup in hand. When I enter he stands, looking over my disheveled appearances I look down at myself before sighing and sitting across from him.

Michael clears his throat. "I...I come bearing news regarding Admiral Lance. I trust you received his letter?"

I pick up my teacup, my eyes drifting down to the muddy paint under my nails.

"I did." I murmur.

Michael's eyes snag on my scars. I feel them rip open on sharp his gaze.

"He told me to come and report to the King. My apologies, it took me a while to see you in person—"

"Is he dead?" I interrupt, picking at my scar under the table.

"...I don't know. The last I had heard he was shot. It was a...brave mission—"

"A suicide mission," I correct him, bringing my teacup to my lips. Whoever steeped this did a terrible job, there's no flavor to it.

Michael just nods. "He asked me to ensure you have access to all his assets."

I bite down on my bottom lip pensively before standing. Michael looks up at me, as if I'm done something abrupt and concerning.

"Well...I appreciate that, Sir Michael, but I have managed household affairs for years. I can handle it on my own."

Michael sets his teacup delicately. It still clatters.

"Yes...but I suspect he wanted me to try to ensure you were alright in...every aspect. To my knowledge he had a doctor checking on you. Are you well?"

I smile tightly. "I am well. "

Those eyes just add insult to injury. Why does he have to look like I'm a wounded animal? I'm perfectly fine.

Michael offers condolences even though they're not even sure he's gone. I take them. At this point I'm sure, I would yearn for girlhood. For a simpler time.

But I'm not sure I've ever had a simpler time.

A life where I am not begging someone to love me, hands out, like a beggar on the street, asking for whatever someone can spare.

"It was good tea," Michael nods with a smile, putting on his hat. "Very flavorful. My compliments to whoever made it. Good day, Mrs. Mendoza."

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Enjoy the double update! 25 is up on Patreon :) I'll resume normal updates on Sundays