The Letter

Dear father, the letter began—and ended. What else was she to say? What else could she say? She couldn't tell him of her life now; war ruined that. Or so she wished.

You ruined it, she admitted. You and your insanity.

That was the truth. The piercing truth, the bleeding truth, the guilty truth—guilty. Illegally crazy, insane, unjustifiably inexplicable. Why was this happening to her? Why was she the only one fighting two wars at once? Why was one of them with herself? Why was that the only one that seemed to enclose anything of relevance?

Thoughts propelled into her like bullets. They were dark. They were overwhelming. They were unstoppable. They left holes. Would they ever graduate to scars?

No. No, not again. Not this. You are not going to give this any more time than it overtakes. Think of something different. Write your letter.

She picked up the pen.

Dear father,

I love you. I love you so much.

She wrote it because it was the only fact left; he was the thing sturdy enough to grip onto. He was concrete, unbreakable. She should tell him, let the honesty ease her as much as his response would—but she couldn't. Not now, not yet. Maybe not ever. He was concrete. He was hers. She didn't want to break him with her pulsing weight. Even if that proved impossible.