The letter was smooth and silky between my fingers, the smooth, coffee-coloured manila envelope giving no indication of what the contents inside were. I looked up, into the smiling face of the man who had just delivered the envelope to me, who had his hand, with a pad of paper and a pen extended towards me, indicating that he wished me to sign. With a motion so well practised, it has almost become unconscious to me; I took the pen from him and slid it across the paper – my scrawl making a stark contrast to the cursive beauty of the last person who had signed. With one more tip of his hat and with an effusive “Have a nice day, sir,” the man departed, leaving me – no, the letter, behind – out of sight, and out of mind.
Once the man had left, I turned the envelope over in my hands, marvelling at its smoothness. Written on the other side, in the smooth, cursive handwriting I had seen on the pad, was my name, and address, blank and impersonal in the blue ink of a fountain pen. With a flick of my wrist, I tore open the envelope, exposing the white paper beneath. I unfurled the paper, and began to read.
Dear Mikhail, (the letter began,)
It's been 5 years since the last time I wrote to you, and in the time so much has happened. It was 10 years ago that you left us to try and find your own way in life. I wonder - how is life for you now? So many things have changed from when you were last here. You were only a child back then, so maybe you would not be able to remember, but...
I paused at this point, looking down at the scar that ran across the back of my hand - a gift from the person who had written this letter. I remembered everything perfectly, surprisingly enough. Everything they were going to say, I felt sure I would be able to remember as if they had only happened yesterday. Pulling myself out of this reverie, I drew my eyes back to letter, and continued to read.
…A couple of weeks ago, remember that boy you always used to play with? Alex, or something, wasn’t it? He left too, like you. I remember his mother being very distraught about it, and she was nearly in tears, the poor woman. She was constantly saying how she hoped he’d come back happily, maybe with a wife, and maybe with a child or two.
Yes, I remembered Alex. His wide-apart, blue eyes, that always seemed to hold a smile in them, his high-pitched laugh… how often had we joked about the “girl’s laugh” we always thought he’d had? I remember when he and I used to play football together in the park… it seems so long ago, I’d almost forgotten his face. Moving on, I continued to read the letter:
Oh, as well, you should know that the old man next door, Mr Scott, who you always used to want to see? You must remember him, the nice old man who always gave you some biscuits when on your way home from school? Well, he just went to hospital a few days ago, because he’d fainted while watering his garden. The doctors were saying something about heart failure as they put him in the ambulance – he just turned 83, so I’m really worried for him – make sure you keep him in mind too, okay?
Oh yes, of course. Mr Scott – that foolish old man, always wandering around with that daft smile on his face, yelling “good mornin’ young’un,” to people near enough his own age. Senile old fool – I had one of those “biscuits” he offered once, and spent the next half-hour being sick. Oh, he acted worried alright – throwing around those fake cries of worry, and calling everyone to let them know – but I knew it was really his fault. He messed with those biscuits – trying to “sort me out” for my parents, like he’d always say…It would serve him right to have a heart attack – it would be about time too. The letter continued:
But, I haven’t forgotten the most important thing of course! Remember, the family of that man…
Enough! I almost yelled the word out loud as I tore the letter into pieces, and scrunched them up in my hand. I’ve had enough of hearing about that man. Of course, dead people don’t deserve to have names – so calling him that man was fine – but why were they making so much fuss about him? Every day for the last 10 years, I had Doctor Johnson walk into my room, trying to tell me about how that man hadn’t really tried to attack me – as if they knew! They tried telling me all sorts of things, like how that man was only asking me directions; he wasn’t trying to kill me. Then they try and tell that he hadn’t fallen on the knife he was trying to stab me with – that I’d pulled out a knife and stabbed him to death! Lies! All of them are insane! They don’t know that man! I know what I did was right, but no-one else does, do they? That is the price I pay for being the only sane person in a world full of lunatics. I sigh, before I toss the paper out between the bars of my window, and hope.
I hope I won’t have to wait 5 years for another letter.
