A Fleeting Realization

Hawthorne,

It was death that brought us together, and soon it shall repeat. Although, I would have thought you were going to be on the receiving end of it. I lied when I told you water was my only weakness; I had another, hawthorn.

Yes, that is why I proclaimed to you that you were a man of death--your last name is the tree I am specifically weak to. Perhaps I should have listened to you and not let my guard down, but alas, it seems more people are aware of the nineteenth century than previously assumed. Damn bastards ... they were shotty at their job, the thing is halfway lodged inside my chest. It’s too deep for me to just pull out and get medical attention, they punctured a chamber and the only keeping me able to write to you is keeping the damned splinter inside.

“You’ve got an hour.” Is what Laila told me as I started my scribbling to you. She’s stern and callous as always, but even I can hence a slight hesitation in that tough wench; she’s done so much to protect me and keep me around--all gone and taken away.

As you remember, I’ve always had my fixation with death, for it felt more real than anything the world had provided me. So, to be faced with it after having met you and perhaps learning to appreciate what the times have now become ... I suppose it is what those half-rats--those “gen-Z” folk--call “cringe.” I “cringe” at the words I’ve decreed six months ago to you, but now I am robbed of the proper chance to amend myself in front of you.

Death is very real, indeed; it is a permanent, omnipotent force that is final and absolute in its actions. But it is not the only real thing in this world; that is where I have been thoroughly mistaken. Alongside the realness of mortality, comes love, but it is so discreet in its appearance that I can’t help but feel a bit miffed. At least death makes itself known and it does not take one long to process the severity of the situation imposed on them.

Not so for love; love remains hidden and it does not give the back of your skull a beating until you’ve reached the inferno and can’t climb back up.

It strikes you when you are vulnerable, helpless, and are no longer of conscious control--just as it is doing right now.

When you find me, don’t grieve. Rather, you could, but I’d prefer you don’t. Just take whatever of my paraphernalia you’d most treasure, shed your tears at home, but don’t make such a big fuss. If anything, I was already dead since my trial by water, so you’ve essentially loved a corpse for half a year, Hawthorne. You needn’t make such a fuss over a sack of rotting flesh as myself.

I am sorry I didn’t foresee it sooner, but from the bottom of my decaying heart, I love you. I’ll be leaving a poem for you as well; a lüshi, of course, as they’ve always been my favorite poems to write in all the centuries I’ve lived through.

You were a great friend, companion, and lover; I will always treasure you.

-Panteleimon Miloradovich Vysotsky