The Dreamer ✓

Letter 25

NO.25; A LETTER TO THE LAST PERSON YOU MADE A PINKY PROMISE TO

MAY 23rd, 2014

Dear DC,

It's my birthday today. Eighteen years on Earth. I don't know how to feel about that. I'm officially (in the eyes of the law anyway) an adult. I could buy a house. I could get on a plane and move far, far away. Or I could get a plane and come to you. Would you welcome me with that half-smile you always gave when you saw me in class? Or would your eyebrows furrow in that way when you were trying to remember the answer to a test?

I don't know what I want for my birthday. It's weird. As you get older the things you want can't really be bought with money. When I was eight I wanted a Tamagotchi (because everyone in primary school had one and I didn't like being the only person without one) and now, I would give anything to have my mum back. But nothing in the world can do that. Not even you and your charming smiles, DC.

I'm gonna be eighteen years old at exactly 2:57 a.m. Which is in about an hour and twenty minutes. Normally, I would sleep past it but I decided to stay up this year since it is a monumental age (apparently) and I thought I would kill the wait by writing you a letter.

Okay, if I'm being honest, it's because I want to catch the text message you usually send on the time of my birth. It's always been at exactly 2:57 a.m. since you left for Australia two years ago. I hope you got the text I sent on your birthday, I don't know if you did because you didn't reply. I'm worried you changed your number or just forgot about me but I don't think you did. You promised me you wouldn't. As juvenile as it sounds, you pinky promised DC and as you know, I take pinky promises very seriously.

Y'know, thinking about it, the last pinky promise I made was to you. It must have been three years ago now, when we were in Year Ten. It was sometime in March. Yeah, I remember now. We walked home in the late afternoon, I'd stayed behind after school for the debate club (a club you thought was really lame but you still turned up to see all my debates) and you'd stayed behind because you'd had detention. The third one that week might I add.

The air smelt sweet as we walked through the field of blue and white tulips in the local park. You had your hands in your pockets and you whistled a song I vaguely recognised.

"I had a weird thought last night," I'd said without thinking, "Well...Who's going to remember me when I'm gone?"

You were quiet for a long time and I thought you weren't going to answer but then you opened your mouth. "Your children. Your parents. Your sisters. Your friends...." You paused, "Me."

"You? Yeah, right," I laughed, "DC, you can barely remember what you had for breakfast this morning."

"No, Morgs," you said, glancing at me with a faint frown, your dark brown eyes were swimming with something determined, something fiery and it made me feel a little lightheaded. "I'm serious. I'll remember you. You might not realise this, but you're not the kind of person people easily forget."

I chuckled, "Is that a good thing?"

You smirked in that trademark, cutting way of yours. "Trust me, it's a good thing."

I stared at you, "You're serious? About remembering me?"

I stopped walking and you did too, looking at me with a confused frown. "What?"

You were one of the few people that could see the truth under my self-deprecating humour. People don't really think I'm serious about anything, I tend to make light of things, throw in a joke or two but it's not because I don't take care. I do. I care so much I can't breathe but it's because I don't want to see others sad, Mum always told me laughter was the medicine so I always want to make people laugh. The way I see it, the world is sick and grey and it need remedies and colour to make it better. I think comedy is a great remedy.

You nodded then, your eyes bright with mirth. "I promise I'll remember you, long after we part ways, long after you're dead."

I bit my lip to stop myself from smiling. "Well, I promise I won't forget you either." I lifted my hand and stuck my pinky finger out, "I...I pinky promise I won't forget you."

You glanced at my pinky and rolled your eyes, "C'mon, Morgs...what are we, five?"

"Francis," I said as I huffed out your first name, knowing full well that you hated it when I did that. I wiggled my pinky at you, "Do it. Promise me."

You sighed and pulling your right hand out of your trouser pocket, you hooked your pinky with mine. I grinned.

"I, Morgana Jones, pinky promise to remember you for the rest of my life," I said.

"You're so lame," You rolled your eyes again but you were grinning as well. "Fine. I, Francis Sebastien Dawson, pinky promise to remember you for the rest of my life too, Morgs. Even in the afterlife."

We stood there with our pinky fingers hooked together for a moment before we pulled them apart and let our hands fall to our sides.

I laughed as we continued walking. "Even in the afterlife?" I said, "You always gotta take the extra mile, DC."

You pushed me and I laughed harder.

It's just turned 2:57 a.m. I'm eighteen years old. On this warm May morning in 1996, I was born. God. I'm eighteen, I'm eighteen and I keep glancing at my phone, waiting, waiting -

And you just text me with fifteen seconds to spare before 2:58.

Happy Birthday, Morgs! Welcome to the Legally-An-Adult-But-Not-Really-An-Adult Club! It's kinda lame but the part about being able to drink alcohol (legally) makes it waaaay better x

I took a deep breath and messaged you and you messaged me back and it went like that for a good while.

Me: I'm not interested in the alcohol, DC. And u were drinking alcohol way before u turned eighteen.

You: Yeah but now it's legal, Morgs ;)

Me: Thanks btw

You: For what?

Me: Keeping your promise. Thank you.

You: Could never deny you anything, now could I Morgs? 

I got the feeling you wanted to say more, like you were stopping yourself from telling a truth you could no longer deny but I might have imagined it (I do that a lot, warp reality in favour of my own) so I didn't comment on it.

Since it's my eighteenth, I'm going to go the cinemas and then bowling with my friends in afternoon. I've never been big on parties or extravagant get-togethers. In the evening, Dad organised a family dinner at some nice restaurant at the edge of Nottingham. Normally, I would dread family dinners but I'm looking forward to this one. It might actually be fun. But I do wish you were here. I always wish you were but more so on my birthday.

So, here I am, three o'clock in the morning of my eighteenth birthday and I feel...I feel good. It's weird a feeling. I'm not used to it. Maybe it has to do with the fact Laurel laughed for the first time since her brother went missing. Or the fact I'm going to be done with sixth form forever soon and I'll never have to go back to Burbank School ever again (except for my Results Day but then that's it). I don't know, but I know that it's a good thing, and I'm not really going question it.

The only sad thing about turning eighteen is that I can no longer say I'm the Dancing Queen, young and sweet and only seventeen.

Love, Morgana.