TORN LETTER
Well hello there, I didn't see you come in. You must be part cat to employ such stealth around one such as I. Please, won't you have a seat? If you will, allow me a moment to put these away. I'll be with you just as soon as- Oops I dropped one. There it goes, rolling on the floor. Be a dear and pick it up for me, wont you? Thank you.
I see you couldn't help but look within it. You're the curious sort are you. Not to worry. Isn't it just lovely? So precious. So darling. Do you know what it is? It's a memory shielded by a glass sphere and exemplified by an object. Look inside and you can see it. Isn't it wonderful? It's a torn letter.
I'll tell you what, you just sit right on down and I'll tell you all about it. Easy does it. There you go. Are you quite comfortable? Good, I'm so glad. Now then, I shall begin. Just look deep inside the glass sphere and the images will become clear, as I narrate the tale. All you need do is follow along to my voice.
Do you see the street below, the one shielded by numerous trees and lit by many a streetlight? It's a nice road and a home to many families who have gathered inside the confines of their homes against the encroaching darkness. All of them normal, but even normal people have secrets, though some have more than others.
Do you see that woman walking towards her door? That's Mary, Mary Watterson, but that's not her real name. At least Mary isn't, she married into the Watterson name, so that does belong to her. Her real name is a secret even to her most intimate friends, even to her husband. It's a secret she's had to bury, but it's about to come to light.
She is near her door now, ready to go inside. See how her arm extends toward the latch. But look, someone's approaching her. It's a man, a stranger to this quiet street. She sees the individual, but does not recognize him. He hands her a letter and walks away. Now she is alone staring at the envelope in her hand.
Mary is reluctant to open the letter as it feels so strange, and yet as though it belongs to her, but there is no name to even designate its belonging to her. She breaks the seal and feels a sensation deep within her being. She holds for but a moment before reaching inside and removing the small, torn paper inside.
It says, "Dear Cerita,"
Mary nearly drops the letter as the rest of her freezes in place. Cerita is her real name, given to her by those she never knew. She looks for the stranger and sees him round the corner of her front lawn. Another envelope slips away from his person and plants itself in a nearby shrub where it remains despite the blowing wind.
Mary hurries down the walk as fast as her legs will carry her, all the while her gaze is fixed upon the protruding object, which she fetches with a swift motion. She then looks up to see that the man is gone without a sign or signal as to where he went. She opens the envelope with a sharp finger and pulls forth the content.
Another piece of the same letter. "I'm sorry I wasn't there to see your birth, I only wish I could have been. My reasons however are selfish and to divulge them to you now would only cause you greater pain. Just know that I was a foolish boy who had a lot of growing to do."
Mary stands still for a long moment as time moves around her at a rapid pace. This piece didn't reveal anything she doesn't know, but she still feels its importance and so holds on to it along with the first, though it feels as though a weight within her hand, or a fire that burns right through her.
She looks up and suddenly spots her quarry still walking away from her house and out into the night. She hurries after him and sees another letter fall on the grass, but the flustered woman ignores it. She's still chasing the man with hurried steps fueled by desperation when she steps foot into the street.
A horn blares as she's blinded by the headlights of a car, it screeches to a halt just in front of her. Mary recovers from the momentary blindness, but the man is gone once again. She soon recovers from the initial shock before stepping back and allowing the irate driver through who has many a colorful statement to issue against her.
The exacerbated woman returns to the discarded letter. She opens it, another part of the same letter. "I was sorry to hear about your mother's death, that is your birth mother. You never knew her and I, only a little bit better. Wanda was a special woman, but I was too immature to see that."
Another of Mary's secrets had been revealed. Wanda was indeed her birth mother, at the age of sixteen she became pregnant, a fact she dug up some time earlier when looking into her origin. The details are not clear as to why, as they so often are not but she gave up little Cerita as an orphan.
Mary looks up, she can see the man just as he crests a hill in the near distance and is gone. Again, a letter flits away, taken by the wind. It lands a few feet away and there it lays, no longer moving. Our explorer hurries after it, this time wary of an approaching car as she crosses the otherwise quiet street.
She takes up the envelope and reads some more. "I'm sorry that I missed so many of the important milestones in your life. I can't apologize enough, but I'll keep trying. I wish I could erase the past, but I've never been able to hold such power. I only hope that I can help to change your future."
Mary pockets the latest note with the rest and hurries to the top of the hill. She can see the man as he continues to walk away.
She hurries after him, finding another letter on her way. "I'm glad to see that you a have a family all of your own, I know you'll do better than your mother and I. Such sweet and beautiful children, darling, I'm so proud of you."
Mary carries on. She can see the man in the near distance. He's ascending a hill.
At the foot of it she finds another letter. "I wish I had more time. There was so much more I wanted to say, but my time is short. Just know that I hope you have all the happiness that life can afford you."
Mary reaches the top of the hill. There the man stands, his back to her. He's looking out at the expansive sea, from the face of a cliff.
The perplexed woman hurries to him, reaches out her arm and takes hold of his trenchcoat, but that is all she has. The man is no more, only his coat remains, held tightly within her fist while her feet remain on solid ground. She brings it close to her person while knowing what awaits her in the inner confines.
Mary finds another envelope in its pocket, there is only a single line, "All my love, Dad."
The man is gone and now so is his coat. The only evidence of his being there, the torn letter in Mary's pocket. She turns her steps and returns home, where she sets the torn pieces on a table and reads the note in its entirety.
"Dear Tabitha,"
"I'm sorry I wasn't there to see your birth, I only wish I could have been. My reasons however are selfish and to divulge them to you now would only cause you greater pain. Just know that I was a foolish boy who had a lot of growing to do."
"I was sorry to hear about your mother's death, that is your birth mother. You never knew her and I, only a little bit better. Wanda was a special woman, but I was too immature to see that."
"I'm sorry that I missed so many of the important milestones in your life. I can't apologize enough, but I'll keep trying. I wish I could erase the past, but I've never been able to hold such power. I only hope that I can help to change your future."
"I'm glad to see that you a have a family all of your own, I know you'll do better than your mother and I. Such sweet and beautiful children, darling, I'm so proud of you."
"I wish I had more time. There was so much more I wanted to say, but my time is short. Just know that I hope you have all the happiness that life can afford you."
"All my love, Dad."
There is a call on the phone. Mary answers it. The voice on the other line asks for a Mary Watterson. Mary informs them that it is she. She is then asked if she knows a Cerita Westerson. Mary confirms this as well. She is then informed that there is a letter addressed to the care of her from a man who has recently died by the name of David Westerson.
The caller confirms the address and assures that they will send it along shortly. She hangs up the phone and returns to the table. She isn't surprised to find nothing there. All the same, she places her hand on the surface and swears she could feel the presence of the phantom item while years start to stream down her face.
Such a bittersweet tale, don't you think? It always moves me so that I am not so given to frequent it. That's why I had to gather it up and preserve it in my collection, along with all the others. You say you'd like to see another? I would be only too happy to oblige. Just go on and pick one out for me to narrate.
PAPER FLOWERS
Take your time and select very carefully, there's no rush at all. I assure you I'm not going anywhere and neither is my collection. That's the one you'd like to see next, the paper flower? Are you sure? Well it's a bit, well it really is… Why don't I just show you and let you be the judge? Are you ready?
Can you see it well enough? This one always starts off so obscurely dark. Here it comes. Can you see the little girl? Such a lovely, sweet smile, don't you think? She's standing in the midst of an ever expanding field of flowers. So lovely, such a wonderful fragrance, but look closely. None of the flowers are real. All of them are just a bit of tissue tipped with red and wrapped with a pipe cleaner stem.
The little girl couldn't be happier. Just look at that smile spread wide across her face. Just see how playfully she picks one of the artificial flowers and holds it to her nose. To her these flowers are just as real as genuine ones. She sits down and allows herself to rest among them. She is so peaceful, that well… Perhaps I should just carry on.
There is a darkness approaching. The girl sees it. She's afraid of it. She stands and runs from it, her flower clutched tightly in her hand. The darkness is coming fast and the flowers wilt at its presence. The girl is running with all her might. Oh, how I wish she could run faster and escape the darkness, oh dear I'm getting ahead of myself. I'm sorry, it's just that this memory stirs me so. I only wish I could change the ending.
Well, anyway, back to the story as it unfolds. The girl is running, running with all her might, but she is tiring. She falls down hard and scatters the flowers which dance in the wind once released from the ground. The darkness envelops her. She shuts her eyes and her life fades, her last ounce of strength residing in her hand crushing the flower.
Pardon me while I wipe away these tears. I'm just always so moved by that memory. I understand the confusion that paints your face. There is much that the memory does not tell, but it is a memory and can only tell so much. However, I have procured the facts of the matter and will relate them to you.
First off, here. This is a photo of an old woman in a hospital bed. It was taken shortly after she passed away. The woman is the girl, or at least she was in her final dream. The paper flowers were a fond memory from long ago. She used to make them with her grandmother until she passed on. Then she kept the last bouquet they made and never again made another flower.
It's not that she was selfish, it's just that the loss the memory invoked was too painful to relive constantly. Still, it didn't stop her from dreaming of those same flowers growing in a field as though they were real. The darkness however, was not there. That was merely the manifestation of her end as she died in her sleep.
Still, it is a moving, splendid memory, but it does possess some sorrow. Unfortunately, that is the nature of these things. Not all memories are pleasant and in my collection are some that are from it. But I am drawn to them all the same and all the wondrous, dismal beauty that they possess.
BLOODIED KNIFE
What is that you have there? Oh, it seems you wish me to prove my words, for that is a terrible memory indeed, but what did you expect from a memory manifested by a bloody knife? Still, if that's the tale you wish recounted, then I shall do just that, but I warn you it is difficult, perhaps even beyond difficult.
See the boy cowering in the corner, violently shaking with sobs? He's holding his sides which bear fresh bruises that paint his skin in sickening hues. You see, he is the victim of intense, physical abuse. Unfortunately, that abuse does not manifest in just a violent nature, but also a depraved one.
The boy's mother died giving birth to him due to medical complications, chief of which being her small body. As for his father, he ran off shortly thereafter. So it fell to the baby's grandfather to care for him, but he was not a nice man, no, far from it. He was one who felt that life had been most unkind and given him a raw deal.
Perhaps he was right, who can say? What can be said is that he took his frustrations out on those who were nearest and dearest to him. Even the boy's mother was not spared. Which was the reason the boy's father left. He had been in the dark about the abuses, as his wife never told him. This all changed with the coming of their first child.
The mother felt it necessary for the child to begin life with a clean slate and so divulged her terrible past to her husband. He couldn't take it. He felt he'd been lied to, which made it seem as though his wife did not trust him. He never considered her feelings in the matter. Such as, the fact that she was so ashamed of what had happened, or that it had taken some years for her to finally stop blaming herself for the abuse.
She had no refuge from the horror. Too many children had come forth with allegations of abuse that turned out to be false. So it became a matter of the boy who cried wolf. No one believed her and reprimanded her severely. She did not even have a mother to confide in, as she had run off some years prior with a man she felt could give her everything, no one knows what became of her, even I don't know.
This mattered little to the boy's grandfather who felt his wife running off was just another terrible card reality had dealt him in his losing hand known as life. A card he would then deal to others with an equal distribution, so that they might suffer for a change. For his misery truly loved company.
Had the mother realized she was going to die she would have certainly signed papers against her father so that he would never touch her child. Unfortunately, she had no such gift for clairvoyance and so the boy passed to his next of kin, his grandfather, without a word spoken against it.
This history is all but obscured from the boy's mind. All he knows is that life has been nothing but terror. Cold nights of lascivious debauchery followed with days of brutality. More than once he's had to be taken to the hospital. For a grandfather can get away with abuse without nary an eye raised, but should the child die he would indeed become suspect.
The child is now crying and holding himself. I wish I could hold him, but this is only a memory. A memory that has played out and cannot be altered. He curses himself. He hates his body which invites such molesting. He chastises the flesh which bows to each blow only to become a blackened spot which aches. More than once he's run away, but that's only insured more violence when he's brought back.
If I could but open a door for him to escape to, or a window that he might fly away, at the very least a corner of the room where nothing bad can happen, but alas I have no such power to right the wrongs that have been perpetrated. I can only watch these things as they unfold unbidden by my input, oh would that I could do more.
Now we see the boy in the kitchen. He is sobbing silently as he scrapes a knife across the open sides of a piece of bread. He is caught up from behind. His grandfather is yelling at him. He asks what's the matter of him. Can he not tell the difference between this jar of mayonnaise from the kind he likes? He sticks the jar in the boy's face.
Slowly, the boy's eyes read the small print which intones a single ingredient not harbored by the other jar. The boy apologizes and falls to his knees clinging to his grandfather's leg. He's given a kick for his trouble. Then he's pulled from the floor and pushed to the piece of bread. The grandfather throws it on the floor. He screams at the boy to clean up the mess and make him a proper sandwich.
The boy is left to himself. He reaches for the knife and grips it tightly. He can take no more. All the abuses have eroded away what little decency he's ever had. He is more like a caged dog, frightened and abused. He only knows the hate he is surrounded by, but more than that he feels the same feeling welling up inside him.
He only wishes there was a little creature he could abuse to his heart's delight, like those you find in a fairy book. He would make them suffer and clean his messes all the live long day. When he gets big he would never be hurt again, but he didn't have to be big. The knife made him bigger by far.
I'm sorry that I must at this time stop to properly collect myself. I'm so conflicted by this memory. I feel for the boy and have only contempt for the grandfather, but one has to remember such feelings do not manifest themselves. No, they fester over time and are passed from generation to generation.
Abuse begets abuse, as blood, more blood. There is no end to the cycle of violence, there is only to break it, but that takes a lot of strength. Strength that is most times found wanting as it can be a Herculean feat that requires we accept that which is unacceptable rather than break ourselves trying to fix that which will not be fixed.
The boy takes to the stairs, the weapon in his hand. He opens the door to his grandfather's room where he finds his guardian lying upon his bed sleeping soundly, his desired sandwich quite forgotten as the allure of a nap proved too much to ignore. As such, he is blissfully unaware of the event to take place. The boy wastes no more time. He screams and bounds forth like a madman.
The grandfather awakens and instinctively jumps from his resting place. He's caught all the same. The knife cutting deep into his side. He stares at the blood seeping from his cut flesh. He sees the boy before him, a mad look in his eye, a bloody knife in his hand. The older man asks what's wrong, he's almost whimpering. The boy rages. He screams and slashes as he upsets the ordered room. He intones the question again and again.
The grandfather is in fear for his life. He cannot believe the transformation before him. This was no quiet little boy who cried too much and demanded all of his time. This was a psycho let loose from a mental ward, with murder on his mind. He pleads with his assailant, on bended knee he begs for his life. The boy buries the knife in the bed and walks away from the room.
From then things were different between the two of them. The grandfather never so much as raised his voice against the boy and he, for his part, never again succumbed to madness. At least that's the way I hope it ended. The truth is I'm too afraid to find out. Often I try to find out all the information I can, but I am genuinely terrified to learn the effects of such a terrible nightmare.
SEND OFF
Tell me, how do you feel? How do you fare? Some of the memories I collect can be rather intense and as such require time to recover from. I only hope that you don't leave this place feeling as though defeated before you've even begun. Life is tough and we must rise to meet its many challenges.
For we are nothing if not resilient. We are adaptable to any situation that seems beyond our measure. Far greater are we then the sum of all the trials and tribulations we must endure. We are all these things and more. Alas, our time has come to an end. I hope that you come back soon so we can share many more memories with each other. I wish you all the best. Take care of yourself.