The Letter

The original reason for this letter was one of anger, of hate. However, as I got to thinking about what I was saying in my own head, I realized that you neither deserved these feelings, nor was I truly feeling them. These strong, horrible emotions that I felt were not directed towards you, not even towards what you did — which was my second guess — but rather, towards what had happened, what you could not have prevented. Then, I realized I still loved you; and love is a happy, wonderful, caring emotion, no matter how much pain and suffering it may bring.

All that has happened — all of it, everything — will affect me forevermore. I will never again be the same, and on some twisted level of my own ruined mind, I don’t want it to be. For if it was, I would lose all the happiness I felt as I lay in your arms; all the warmth I felt radiate from your very core, transfer from you to me; all of the best parts of my dreary life would be gone, and not for all the pain and suffering in the world would I ever wish to give that up. And trust me, I paid in advance.

You brought me out of that eternal darkness within which I was trapped. I couldn’t see, couldn’t feel; everything was cold, numbingly so. I couldn’t move, couldn’t change, couldn’t even help myself. Help was not a word that existed in my limited vocabulary — it was a foreign thing from another land that I could never have, understand, or feel. My family was dead, murdered before my very eyes; I was rescued from that, but poorly — old monks took me in, and further into the darkness I retreated. They meant well, but that isn’t enough — it’s never enough. Isn’t that right? Then, a younger man took me out, and for a moment I saw sunshine. It was my first feeling of warmth, that I can remember, anyway; I was twelve years old. My first droplet of heaven, after a lifetime of hell and six years of cold nothingness.

That didn’t last long. This man, whose name I never knew, brought me out of darkness only to plunge me back into it, deeper and darker than ever before. A dungeon, miles below ground, freezing, emotionless, empty. At least with the monks I was warm in body, if not in mind; here I was numb everywhere — my limbs, my spirit, my soul — I couldn’t feel them. Couldn’t feel my blood in my veins. Couldn’t feel the thoughts in my head. Couldn’t feel the life in my body, the fire in my spirit. Couldn’t feel the existence of my soul — and trust me, you can feel it; you just don’t know it until that feeling is gone, for we take it for granted. We take everything for granted; we meaning everyone else. I had nothing to take for granted. I could feel nothing but liquid ice in my veins and fire in my mind. And it didn’t serve to warm me in the slightest, I am sad to say. Not that kind of fire.

I was lost, trapped. That man, he had me all to himself — I was his slave. He soon grew tired of me, and by then I was already lost. Six months of only him, and after that I would have been grateful to take him back and be forced to deal with just him, for after that he began to milk profit from me. I grew with each passing day, his clients going from equally deranged friends to pedophiles to men seeking a cheap thrill. I was blossoming, a flower wilting from the beginning, before I was even a flower with petals and leaves. I was condemned from the start, so to speak. None of them noticed my distress, my pain, my disgust — at least my Master wasn’t so old, so small, so limp. Not even I could feel my own emotions; I was empty, and nothing could fill me. Not even them, however much they tried — for themselves, of course.

I remember little of the five years between when I was sold to this man — at twelve — and when I was “saved” — at seventeen. Maybe I begged for death, or fresh air, or sunlight; perhaps I screamed out in agony, or in pleasure; perhaps I ate food, drank water, slept peacefully; perhaps I was tortured, murdered, stabbed, defiled, tormented. Not even I know; no one does. They forgot about me immediately, and I about them. The scars are all that remain; the scars, both upon my body, my spirit, my mind, and my soul. I would never again be the same.

But what would be “the same”, I wonder? How do you define such a broad and lost term?

The day that I was “saved” is my first real memory in a life of pain and sadness, which I both escaped and felt tenfold. I was destroyed early, numbing everything I felt; but in protecting me from the horrors of those five years, it also made it nearly impossible for me to be redeemed, to feel the sun and the air and the beauty of life ever again — if I even had before.

You, you are the first memory of mine; your handsome face, your gorgeous smile, your beautiful eyes. I don’t remember the day, or what happened — just your face. The only true and untainted memory that was taken out of an entire year of rehabilitation. Your young, soft features, handsome and kind; your twinkling violet colored eyes; the creases that those eyes and your mouth made when you smiled — which was a beauty beyond all others as I saw it; the wondrously refreshing shade of reddish-gold that was your shoulder-length brown hair; the ivory smooth complexion of your skin. I remember the warmth that radiated from you even then, through your warm clothing and my scanty rags. You saw me, and forced a smile, to try and reassure me. It didn’t matter; I couldn’t see. After five years of blocking out my hideous world, I couldn’t see. Even your beauty was hidden from me. I could only guess, really. It wasn’t until later that I truly saw you and filled in the blanks that my mind had created — that my mind had been unable to fill — that my mind has actually wanted to fill.

You were my angel, my knight in shining armor, my savior, my god. You bent down and picked me up carefully, moving slowly and cautiously, as if afraid that I would shatter upon contact. After a life of eating so little and so poorly as far as I can remember, my sturdy, curvaceous figure had diminished; I had no muscles, for I never really moved, and my bones were horrendously malnourished. My skin was yellowed and unhealthy, as well pasty and powdery white, having been virgin to the sun for so long. I was a dying slave, hair brittle and dull, eyes clouded over and far from healthy in any way. I was supposed to have chocolate eyes and dark brown hair, but I just looked like I was dying from the plague. I was supposed to be alive, but I really wasn’t — pulse and breathing doesn’t determine that, as most people believe.

You picked me up, and your heat burned me. I was so used to cold air and stone and vile friction that the soft warmth and gentleness of your skin scalded me, scared me, hurt me. I whimpered and shivered from the shock, and tried to curl myself up, but lacked the strength. You misread this reaction for one of cold, but I felt no cold now, just the absence of it. Real fire flowed through my veins, and I was too scared initially to determine if I liked the sensation or not. You took me out of the dungeon, towards the outside world, and I was far from sad to see this, my own personal hell, recede behind me, never to again be seen.

My first truly malicious thought: I wished for that place and all the people in it who did, would and could have furthered my horrid life to burn in hell, flames licking at their flesh for all of eternity, charred entrails boiling forevermore, blackened flesh peeling away slowly, screams of agony echoing for all of eternity. Maybe then it wouldn’t be so damned cold, I thought with a hint of bitter humor, which was more painful than satisfying; I can say to this very day.

Luckily the sun was hidden behind some clouds and it was a night of the new moon approaching, because my eyes were so used to the darkness and being unable to see in any that direct sunlight would have hurt immensely, perhaps ruining what little health I had when it came to my damaged eyes. I covered my face anyway, the lack of cold darkness burning me even worse than your warmth, which I had begun to become accustomed to. It was the single best thing that has ever happened to me, I can truthfully say now that I think about it. I tried to hold onto you, but I was too weak, too fragile. You were afraid I would break, and so I didn’t. You made sure I didn’t. You cared, and that held me together all by itself; your willpower seeped out of your very pores and served to be the greatest strength I have ever been allowed. I fell in love with you from the very beginning, I see that now. I see a lot now that I never saw before, and I find it odd that you never noticed any of these things either. Strange.

Six months. That’s how long it took for me to recover — physically, at least. My muscles had to be redeveloped, my bones regrown, my eyes readjusted, my whole system purified and made healthy once more — so many things were wrong: my eyes, my hair, my skin, my health — everything. Eventually, however, a whole team of nurses and three doctors fixed me up, and I was once again healthy and strong — although my mind was still broken, my spirit crushed and my soul torn to tatters, like my old rags. I kept those rags, by the way, unwilling to let them go — although they were washed. More than once. Repeatedly, for their offending filth in such a “clean” hospital around such “clean” people in this “clean” world of ours. It was only because of my hardened determination that they weren’t awarded a one-way first-class top-priority trip to the incinerator. I had first met you and felt you in those rags; I wasn’t willing to give them up. Ever. Memorabilia. Souvenirs, you see. Symbols of going through hell and coming out...alive? Intact? Breathing? Less dead?

One of the nurses, skilled in the art of sewing, salvaged the material and using some secondhand thread and cloth — which, coincidentally came from an old shirt of yours, although I never spoke about my own reasoning; she held a fondness for meaning and coincidences, so the “one who had saved me” held a romantic sense for her — she made those rags into a darling little sash, which could also be used as a scarf. I wear it all the time, usually around my neck. It keeps me warm in any amount of cold, as opposed to just downright numb.

I was never quite the same, of course, even when it came to my body, healed or no. I was still fairly numb and immune to pain, unable to feel tickled or comforted; out with pain, out with pleasure. Cold never quite affected me at all, but heat was a cause for sickness with me, surpassing mild discomfort. Anything above room temperature was a huge and nasty ordeal for my fragile body, as we quickly — and unpleasantly — discovered. Luckily “we” lived in a fairly cold place; I just couldn’t go into any heated buildings. I couldn’t go out, either — I was not fond of people, they made me nervous, and living normally would never be an option for me. That was taken away from me by the bastards that destroyed all that I could ever have, which wasn’t very much to begin with, I must admit.

You were a complete and utter sweetheart; you offered to take it upon yourself to nurse me back to health in the ways that the doctors wouldn’t — they could, anybody could, but they claimed that mental healing and aide was not “a part of their job”. You offered me home and care; you would be compensated, for you were taking supposed vacation time in order to do this. Paid vacation time, but still. You were giving it up...for me? I accepted in the mutest and least enthusiastic way possible, while inwardly I was overloading with the greatest joy that I had ever felt — pathetic compared to what most people feel on a daily basis, but I am not like other people, so it was for me enormously frightening and wonderful experience I got to have for the very first time in all of my life.

And so you helped me, taking three months of your life to make me better, even though you didn’t know me and I didn’t know you. Yet. You were calm, quiet and gentle with me; cautious. I was a delicate, brittle flower who had just recently stopped wilting; I was not yet ready to bloom. I was still not fully recovered, and forcing me could hurt me more than it would help — you knew that, and you kept it in mind, always. You took it slow, helping me to appreciate the simple pleasures in life first: The air, the sun, the moon, water, fire, warmth, and — in time — love. One step at a time I learned to crawl, then to walk, and finally to run.

And I ran right into your arms.

I fell in love with you, starting out with a warm happy feeling, slowly progressing until what I felt with you matched and surpassed anything I had ever felt before; anything I ever knew that I could ever feel. What I had originally thought was love was nothing compared to what I began to feel for you; seeing you smile made me happy, seeing you smile because of me made me feel ready to die without any regrets. Oh, death could have even been pleasant then, as long as you were to continue loving me — one smile, that was all I asked for — untainted love is all I wanted. All I would ever want.

And I thought that you felt the same way.

And in a way, you did. You loved me, but I loved you more. What you thought was love was just an extreme closeness, I was sad to say. As of that felt by brothers and sisters, I suppose — I do not remember my own family. You went back to work, which I never truly understood, and I stayed at home, waiting for you. You tried to get me a job, but what could I do? I was useless. You found me crying one day when you came home early, and when you asked me why, I sobbed, telling you: “I’m useless — worthless — I don’t deserve you — I can’t even help around the house — I’m a doll, a baby, a hindrance, nothing more I should just DIE ”

You held me, hushed me, rocked me back and forth, warming me and calming me down. Finally I was silent, and you said to me — not for the last time, but instead for the first — “I love you, and just seeing you smile makes all of this worth it. No matter what. Don’t you ever forget that, my lovely.” After that I calmed down and didn’t feel the need to complain anymore.

That night, you made love to me for the very first time, although it was not my first time, nor was it yours. I felt as if pure euphoric bliss poured into me from you, nothing like what I had experienced before. We were one, and your warmth was all I had, all I needed. Love made all the difference; it made it pleasurable — for me, not just for the “other one”, my partner. Laying beside me, your warmth still within me, I knew that I could never live without you. I loved you to the point that without you, I was sure that I would die.

One month after you returned to work, three months after you started caring for me, I woke up to find you gone. Vanished without a trace. I went to your work — however much it frightened me to even leave the house without your tender loving support and gentle caring strength — for sometimes you had to leave unexpectedly, and you don’t wish to wake me, but even then you would always leave me a sweet little note. Always. I was lost, confused and frightened to degrees far beyond anything I had ever felt before — but I couldn’t give up, couldn’t back down, because without you I couldn’t even breath, and the very thought of you being gone was unthinkable, unbelievable, unacceptable.

Your work didn’t know where you were, they were being callous and cold, and here I felt my first bout of real, homicidal anger — rage. I grabbed that man around the neck, squeezed and looked into his eyes, mine wide and angry, tinted red in his over-actively imaginative mind. I was met with fear and compliance. He squealed, crying out about how you — my love — had come by to tell them he was leaving; wanted a transfer. Immediately. I was not to be alerted. No packing was necessary. The pig begged for his life and wet his pants; I let him go, all anger evaporated, leaving only emptiness.

I was left feeling sad and weak, stumbling along blindly without your light to guide me. No, not sad. Just cold. Colder than I had ever been before, in the dungeon or in the monastery. I couldn’t see; my sun, my angel, my love was gone.

You were gone. And worse yet, you had left me...of your own free will.

I didn’t know why; I couldn’t understand. I thought you loved me. I felt nothing; I didn’t eat, I didn’t sleep, I didn’t move. I couldn’t. I was found, half-dead, just in time to be put back in the hospital. Damn. Two more days — two more measly days — and I wouldn’t have to feel anything anymore, but apparently someone was worried. Someone who didn’t know me but had a big heart — too big — had called it in, just in case. Big heart, small brain. The worst thing that could have been done to me was to save me. It killed me, love; I was dying from the moment that pig squealed and I discovered the truth about what had happened, what you had done — the moment I had found out the truth about how you felt. I was dead, unable to live without you. Unwilling to even try.

I wouldn’t eat without the tubes, wouldn’t go to the bathroom without the nurses; wouldn’t do anything but lay here, think about how I miss you, wishing it was all over, tormenting my mind and damaging my body all the more. Ah, what bliss that would be, eh? What pure bliss and wonderful riddance of horror beyond unspeakable horror Save me, damn you — don’t kill me by trying to help; you don’t know anything

After a month of this my whole view changed. Permanently ice-cold, I began to eat, to get up, to rebuild my strength. I never spoke, just ate, walked and lived. No one around me knew why, they just felt fear and a wary apprehension. There was ice in my eyes, and the doctors and nurses were all deathly afraid of me; they feared this little broken woman who, ten months ago, had been hardly more than sallow skin and brittle bones. The change, more than anything, and my sturdy will to live awed and frightened them more than anything else.

I regained all of my strength times two, and was out in one month after that. It had been eleven months since you had saved me from hell as it truly exists, on earth, in life, and now I was right back in another version of it. Not physically, but mentally. My spirit and soul had long since died. And it can never be restored, because you left me.

I began to feel hatred in that hospital, and once I realized that it was you I despised, I began to make myself better; I would not die because if I did, it would be like surrendering — allowing you to defeat me because I was too weak to live without you. You left me and I would not allow any person to hold such power over me — nay, I say You cannot control me How dare you even try, you goddamned bastard

I felt these feelings of negativity and hatred for a total of one month. Thirty days. Four weeks that felt like a millennia; an aeon; an eternity and more. On the anniversary of the exact day that you saved me, one year past that first time I ever saw you — has it only been that long? It has felt like much longer, love; gloriously so — I sat down and decided to write you a letter and send it to your work to get to you. That was today, at dawn. That was this very letter, in a way. It is now dusk, and I am almost done writing this letter. I will be finished by then, and I have a few more things to say before that time comes — the last light will truly be the last light.

The original reason for this letter was one of anger, of hate — and I have just explained how those feelings came to be; from love to hate and now to wherever it is I stand right now. Today I began to write a letter — several letters — expressing these extreme feelings, far greater than any others I have ever known. However, I read them back and really thought about what I was saying — I said that I hated you, that I wished I had never met you — and I couldn’t help but laugh at the irony contained within those words, as well as the complete and utterly horrible inaccuracy. My own feelings were being portrayed wrongly by, well, myself I laughed until I cried once I figured that out — from half an hour before noon to half an hour after.

Pages upon pages of my feelings and my position told exactly in reverse. I love you, I could never feel angry at you, no matter the reason — whether you deserve it or not. I would never wish you to feel pain, or death, no matter what you did to me, how you hurt me, how you killed me. And the last thing that I would ever want would be to have never met you, no matter how much pain resulted from that in the end. You saved me, and for a short time, I was happy. Out of a lifetime of emptiness and hell, the time I spent with you has been the best of my life — and even this pain I have felt ever since you left is far better than the nothingness I felt before when I was trapped in body, and in mind. That mind-numbing emptiness is worse than all the pain in the world, love; I figured that out in the very best way.

You healed me, and I am forever grateful. You also destroyed me, but in order to die, you must live; and I had never done that before. I am grateful for living, just as I am grateful for dying, because you gave me that privilege I would have been denied had I been left to rot in the bowels of hell. I would never have been alive, so logically I would never have really died; I would be unable to do so. I would simply cease to exist; ashes blown away in the wind, never known, never noticed, never there — an instant of existence, and then gone forever.

But that’s life. That which does not destroy us makes us stronger...

By the time you get this letter I will have exercised that right; so don’t even try to find me, although you wouldn’t even if you could, I am sad to say. Tears are in my eyes as I write, and I don’t have much time left. It will be impossible for me to be found; I will no longer exist — not that I do now, I acknowledge with a small, bitter laugh. I cannot live without you, but I will take an active part in my death, as opposed to the broken, passive, weak way that I would have died in that sterile, empty, cold hospital.

That place scares me more than anything else, even more than the hell I was once trapped within, and I am glad that it will not claim me. Neither of those places deserve me, for I am now a real person. You made me what I am today; and I will make me what I shall be tomorrow. Good bye, my love; I am sorry, but without you, I am nothing. And nothing does not exist.

At least, now, I will die with love in my heart, happiness in my memory, and life in my bones. You are the one who gave me this choice, and for that, my broken self is eternally grateful. I am exactly eighteen years old today, and I want a kiss for my birthday. Will you be the one to give me this last wish of mine, or will I have to settle for a lesser satisfaction from someone dead and gone, like myself?

You decide, love. It’s all up to you now; that’s how it always has been. And since time shall freeze and cease to exist, that is how it always will be.

~*~*~

The most precious possession of mine always has been and forever will be my darling little sash, made from the me that you saved and the you that saved me. It is a homely little thing, patched with the fabric overlapping, unified as one. A beautiful thing in my eyes, forever holding your warmth and your smell; the two things about you I love the most. With this I provide you an undying salute to our love, and the importance you hold for me that surpasses time, space, life and death. This dried up and worthless hunk of flesh and bone will not be hard to kill; strangulation is slow and nasty — a perfect, eternal salute to my entire life: slow death, so painful, yet so happy, so peaceful in the end, bliss brought swiftly on the backs of blazing white horses...

Good Bye from A Ghost to A God - Without you, I don’t even exist

And now, since I am without you, The Ghost does not exist

Does the God even notice? Does the God even care?

I guess I will never know - we will never know

And since knowledge is power...Where does that leave me?