Luka (#4)

Letter #3 to Delyeah Summers from Luka Follesé

Delyeah,

Something strange happened last night. Last night, I found a stranger crying in my kitchen.

At first, I wasn’t really sure what to think about it. I was sort of frightened by it. I wasn’t really sure what I was hearing until I saw her sitting on the floor, knees pressed to her chest, her arms wrapped tightly around them. It wasn’t the normal cries, the wails, the loud sobs. It was hitched breath, trembling, occasional soft sob. I couldn’t see her face because it was buried in her knees.

It was very dark, so I couldn’t really make out anything.I know what you’d be thinking if you were reading this: “So turn on the light, you doofus.” I know most people would in this situation, but you know me: I’m not most people. I took a seat beside her softly, hoping not to startle her. I wanted to to hold her hand, but I didn’t want to give off a creepy vibe, so I just sat there and focused on the sound of her crying. I was trying to block out the voices, and I did.

I wasn’t really sure if she was real. I knew you were real because Gretta said you were, and I knew she was real because my parents said she was, and as much as I hoped they weren’t real, I knew they were because they were there before my schizophrenia kicked in.

It never occurred to me that she could’ve been a serial murder or anyone other than who she was. We just sat there for hours while she cried. I wanted to ask her what had happened, why she had come into my house, if she needed anything, but I kept my mouth shut while she cried until she fell asleep.

When I noticed she had fallen asleep, I got up slowly, and I grabbed a blanket and wrapped it around her. I sat back down, and I leaned against the wall by the counter, and I listened to the sound of her breathing for a while. Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale…

Delyeah, I fell asleep last night, and I had a bad dream. When I woke up, I wished you were there to hold me close to you, telling me everything was okay. I miss you.

But, Delyeah, I fell asleep last night.

I fell asleep, and I stayed asleep. 4 A.M. is when I fell asleep, and 11 A.M. is when I woke up.

She tells me her name is Arabella, and she came here from Chicago. She was going to visit a friend who was in a mental ward, but when she got there, she received news that her friend was dead. His name was Eric. He’d hung himself, Eric did. That was all she was told. No specifics on how he got ahold of materials to hang himself. Just the “We’re not allowed to give you details unless you are immediate family” line.

Eric had never met his family; Arabella was all he had. Had been since he was thrown in the foster system as an infant. Arabella had six by then, and there were so many kids crowded into the foster home, so the two infants weren’t cared for like they needed to be… At least, not by the parents. The parents only fostered all the kids they did (she said about six kids were there) because they wanted the monthly checks. They didn’t want to sit down and hold them and love them like they needed to be loved. So some of the kids would hold them and play with them. Arabella always loved holding Eric, even if she always had to be near someone who was a bit older than her before she was allowed.

She told me about how when she had been in the foster home about four years, and Eric three, she went to go sneak in and hold him. She liked to do that sometimes when she couldn’t sleep. She walked by their foster parents’ room, and she heard them talking about selling him. Like, literally. Black market children. Of course, being nine, she didn’t understand, so she asked one of her older siblings, Jeff. He was 15, the second oldest. He went to the authorities, and the parents were arrested, and all the kids were shipped off to other homes. That’s when they got separated.

She knew the family he lived with next, and she could check in on him all the time. They were really good parents. She moved around from foster home to foster home for the next few years, until she was 15. She’d finally found a stable home with parents that loved her. Sure, they had some problems, but every family does. I mean, just look at mine. That’s when the fire happened.

The house Eric lived in was burned to ashes overnight, and the parents who were caring for him were killed. He had been over at Arabella’s house when it happened.

Then Eric got shipped off again. This time, she couldn’t ever see him because she didn’t know where he was. And for the next three years, she stayed in the foster home, eventually getting adopted, but longing for the day when she’d turn 18, so she could start her search for him.

And when she turned 18, she did go looking, and she finally found him after searching for a year and a half. He had been placed in a mental institute. Tess Mental Institute, located in the one and only Valdosta, Georgia. His foster father had raped him several times over two years, and no one believed him, and when he tried killing himself and failed, he was sent there.

She didn’t tell me how she knew he was getting raped or how she knew how he was sent there, but I didn’t want to ask because she couldn’t stop crying while she was telling me this earlier. I think she’s still crying. She went for a walk because she was having a hard time breathing from all the crying, so she wanted some fresh air and some time by herself. I understand it, too. I get how she feels… Losing someone is one of the hardest things to do,

I miss you, Delyeah.

-Luka