No Shit, Sherlock

Lonely

Today is cold. Very cold. Enola and Tewkesbury have gone out of town, the young Lord had a meeting to attend. So, of course he'd take his beautiful girlfriend. My mother is also out of town, another secret meeting, she's been going to them a lot lately. Even Timothée is out of town, he's at the same meeting as Tewkesbury and Enola. Who would've known that the pretty boy was a Lord as well?

So, I'm by myself. With absolutely nothing to do, and no one to talk to. I suppose I could go to the cafe, but it's always busy this time of day.

I grab my coat and make my way outside, there's an envelope sitting on my doorstep. Why can't the mailman ever put the mail in the mailbox? Picking the letter up, I see that it's addressed to me. I'll read it later, so I shove it in my pocket, and begin my walk to downtown.

Surely there's something I could do here to entertain me. It's already seven, maybe I can watch a play.

"Good evening, madame."

The man flashes a handful of money at me, a cocky grin on his face.

"I'm not a prostitute," I say, flatly.

He turns red, "Sorry, I'll leave you alone now."

I continue walking, my head held high, and a scowl on my face. A man sees a woman walking by herself and automatically assumes she's a prostitute. Not that I have a problem with prostitutes, it's their bodies after all, they can do whatever they want with them.

The sky begins to darken, bringing an intense chill along with it. I should've grabbed an extra coat, my body isn't used to weather this cold. Even though I've been here for a few months now.

I open the door to the cafe, everyone's eyes falling on me. Of course this place is full of couples, because the universe wants to remind me that I'm alone. I've always hated being alone, and today is the first day I've felt lonely in a long time.

"One lavender tea please," I tell the worker.

She nods and takes my money, "Please have a seat, I'll bring it you shortly."

I take a seat by the window, watching the people walk by. London is an interesting place, you never know what you'll see. That's why I love it here, it keeps me on my toes, and I love the thrill of it.

"Here you go, ma'am."

The lady sets my tea down and I thank her. I watch the dried lavender petals swirl around in the cup. The tea is still hot, a small cloud of steam rising from it. I carefully pick the cup up and take a sip, ignoring the questioning glances from the couple seated beside me. People really should mind their own damn business.

I adjust my coat, a crinkly noise catches my attention. Oh, right, the letter. I should probably read it now. My hand reaches into my pocket, grabbing the envelope carefully. I pull it out and stare at it, I never get letters, so this one must be important. My eyes scan the handwriting over and over again, it looks oddly familiar.

I finally take a deep breath and rip the envelope open, the letter inside is a dark tan, it's old paper. As I open it something falls out, I pick the item up and examine it.

It's the feather from a dove.

My stomach drops. I ignore my shaking hands and read the letter. The more I read, the tighter my chest feels. I read the letter again and again. I keep reading it until I notice drops of water fall on to the paper, muddying that familiar handwriting. My fingers rub the feather, memories of my childhood resurfacing.

Why did he have to send a letter? He's ignored my desperate attempts to repair our relationship for two years. So why contact me now? Why wait until I leave the country, and finally get over the fact that my own father doesn't love me?

Because he's a narcissist and a raging alcoholic, he probably wrote this letter drunk. I know he did, because as shitty as my father is, he would never write something so hurtful while he was sober.

I stand up, shoving the letter in my pocket. My lavender tea sits on the table unfinished. Everyone's eyes are on me as I storm out of the cafe and into the building across the street.

My feet move on their own, my mind and emotions have shut down. I sit in a chair, my eyes staring at my reflection in the mirror in front of me. A man walks over, a towel thrown over his shoulder.

"What will it be?" he asks, his Scottish accent is thick.

"Whiskey. Lots of it."

"Rough night?"

He sets a glass of whiskey in front of me, I guzzle it down, and his eyes widen.

"Keep it coming," I mutter.

Tears fall from my eyes as I sit there, reciting the letter over and over again in my head.

'You'll never be worthy of love, all you'll ever be to someone is a warm body.  No man will ever love you, including myself.'