Dear Death

Chapter 1 - Ophelia

Death,
I have nothing to live for, so take my soul. What I had is lost to the infinite sands of time. What I had held value beyond compare.
Ophelia

My gaze shifted to the window, Dr Jones sat in front of me. His patience held no bounds, this was one of 42 sessions.

Each was quiet, he knew that any queries would be ignored, as the purple hyacinths where my sole focus of today's therapy session.

"Ophelia?"
A small hum left my mouth, as I studied the indigo flowers that incarcerated my eyes.

"Your first letter arrived today." He stated, brush his ginger hair out of his eyes.

The letter. No one had sent me a letter, though my memory was lacking. My dissociative amnesia was a constant challenge for me.

Dr Jones had contacted another therapist in Caliifornia, thinking that a pen pal would help me remember, or to make a friend.

He slide a small white envelope across the table, slowly pulling the letter away from his pale hands. There was no writing on the front, only a postage stamp and the ink from the Mental Centres address.

It was like muscle memory, meekly tearing open the letter.
There was only a single piece of paper, similar in size to a business card.

The hand written message was short, the curvy script looked like it belonged in the Victorian era.

Hello
A.G

Whoever sent this was rude, the pen pal project would mean that a letter was exchanged every week, simply saying hello was a curtisy.

I didn't know who would recieve my letters, inturn the would not know who read theirs.

It seemed that the doctor grew tired of my unresponsive state, and quietly excused himself from the room.

The next few days differed from my prior routine, as Jones begged me to reply to my new "Friend"

I wanted to be as rude as possible, in a discrete way.

Flowers.

Patrick said I was a Florist, surely a flower with ill meanings to accompany my message would tell A.G to be more polite.

My letter was similar, with only few words and pressed flowers.

Hello
O.C

With my letter where a rhodendron (to represent agitation) and a candytuft (representing indifference).

In response, I got a nickname and a quote from Dante Alighieri.

Flower,
In the middle of our life journey I found myself in a dark wood.
A.G

If there was ever something worse than having a poet as my pen pal.

Any other kind of person would have been better.
Someone with bad handwriting, someone who never responds to my letters, a serial killer making Death threats.

But a poet.
A poet could write 100 billion words and still have more to say. A poet would use old English words, like chuse, apricity and illecebrous.

A poet would insult someone with unknown words and long lost phrases.

So in retaliation, I would become a poets worst nightmare.

Poets have many dislikes, but over all they hate people who do not know poetry.

With this letter, I sent a soapwort, meaning confusion.

No soppy depressed simpy poet was going to write me letters on Shakespeare, Frost or Edgar Allan Poe.