Blank: Part 1


Beloved Benedict,

The snake with two heads is real, while you might not believe me; you are my only hope at breathing some sense into things. Things that make the least possible sense. And no, it is not one of the creatures of my fantasy novels that I read. I understand your concern but I also understand that you used this idea as one of the plausible explanations so that we can understand what I saw and have been seeing. I also get that late night reading might leave marks on my dreams but I tell you this is all real. And you might regret hearing this but I have been watching the door to our room ajar in my dreams, nothing’s disturbed inside, everything seems as it is but it feels like there is no sign of my presence. Is it that you will forget me this easily? I don’t think good memories don’t leave marks.

There now, I think I am being repetitive again. I try not to, really, you have to trust me I try not to sound like I am just jumbling same works in new sentences but there really is nothing that I can do. You were right when you said that authors have a pool of vocabulary and expression to choose from but come to think of it my sea of words is drying up, leaving nothing but large, white patches of salt on the surface. Salt, it reminds me to remind you to remember to add some salt to your drink, not much, just a pinch or two in your juice so that you don’t dehydrate. It is sizzling hot out there, my God, I can’t believe it is so hot, the heat has got to be some kind of joke. They are coming now I have to go.

Love, Ciara xoxo.

I look at the yellowed paper, It looks as though words were still making some sense to her when she wrote. Hatred and regret splash into my bones, I realize that it was a bad idea opening these letters again but the gravity of the moment begged me to. I absolutely abhor myself for reading these letters over and over; reading them caused pain but reading them again and again only pinched me more with the way she must have been feeling. It is one of those situations where a man is completely helpless and hopeless, and knowing myself, I tried to rebel destiny but like every other helpless creature of God, couldn’t get anything from it. There was really nothing that I could have done.

I sniff the paper, it reeks of her fear and anxiety. I also have a feeling that she was burning with fever during the time she wrote this letter. And the woman never failed to surprise me by the amount of love she had for a man like me in her heart, a useless man who couldn’t be with her. Sometimes I feel that by letting her go there, by fulfilling her wishes, I found a way to lessen the burden of my responsibilities. Does that not make me selfish? I shouldn’t have left her be alone like this.