The Letter

harnessing not my experiences, but my emotions...

 

The Letter

 

Outside my window, the waves crashed against the shore. They were loud and thundering and soothing. But they couldn’t stop my worrying.

            I stood up from my seat at the kitchen table and walked to the large sliding glass door. I leaned against the frame after opening the door to better hear the waves.

            I was in my uncle’s beach house. Privileged me, he gave me the run of it for the summer while he was away. It was alright, sometimes. I had made a few friends among the local surfers. They never seemed to connect with me though; we never became close friends. It made the few weeks I had been there even lonelier.

            She had told me she would write me her decision in a couple of weeks, but the weeks had passed. I had spent them reading and running. I stayed away from the computer, though. She haunted the wireless connection, every comment, email, and message taunting me with what I stood to lose. A couple of months, and I still waited. I couldn’t do anything else. Was incapable of. Miles away and she still had me curled around her finger.

            I walked outside in my baggy shorts, eschewing shoes so that I could feel the cool sand beneath my toes as I walked to the mail box unit all of the local beach houses shared. The wind cut sharply, swirling sand around my tanned ankles and momentarily making goosebumps rise on my skin. It felt like an ominous sign. I almost turned around and went back to the house then.

            What if the letter had finally come and her decision was mapped out, plain and simple, leaving no room for interpretation? How could I deal with it then? How would I? I would go insane. Get the next flight back to civilisation and drown myself in my running until I went back to work. The firm didn’t need me, not while my uncle was still alive to run things. I didn’t have anymore to learn. But if…if the letter was bad, I’d want to bury myself in any work the company needed done.

            Without even getting out my mailbox key, I turned around and made a second pair of tracks between the mailbox and the house.

            When I got inside, I wanted a tennis ball to throw against a wall. It was a strange desire, but a strong one. I never played tennis. I had no tennis ball. But I had an orange. I picked one up off of the table. I squeezed it gently, feeling its rough skin. Feeling the soft pulpiness within. Kind of like me. I had put up a rough unaffected front, while on the inside, I was impressionable, worried. Easily pierced by the fingers that stabbed inside.

            My fingers were moist. Juice leaked from half-moon slits in the orange’s flesh. Oops. I walked to the stone tiles of the kitchen proper, and with Hephaestus’ mighty arm, swung down. The orange split on the tiles, not too unlike the great god’s own head.

            Unfortunately, I was not motivated enough to clean up the mess left by this sort of therapy, so I left the kitchen and let myself fall face first onto the double-chaise. The cushion absorbed me and every worry, fear, need and desire into its depths. It tried to be so comforting, but I would not be comforted.

            The tears began to flow, and the cushion absorbed them, too. My shoulders shook with silent sobs as I remembered the rainbows we had shared and the secret trysts; the train rides into the city and the long walks back; and the amazingly perfect picture of a firework’s explosion, an amazingly perfect beginning captured forever.

            I sobbed harder and struck my staunch supporter. It didn’t deserve the abuse, but it stood up faithfully under my helplessly flailing fists. Yes, I was too old for temper tantrums. Even in my pique, I realised this. But I also knew that I was too young for the devastation the letter might bring. Too young for the pain.

            I am under the impression that I cried myself to sleep that afternoon and slept through the rest of the day and night without actually checking the mail.

            Either way, when I woke up again, I was still in my baggy tan shorts and a tee shirt. I sat up, rolling my feet off of the chaise and letting my toes brush the deep plush carpet; and I cradled my head in my hands.

            I remembered…an orange.

            Here.

            I followed my incoherent thoughts to the kitchen. There was an orange on the floor. The skin had split along a side. Whatever side an orange has. Pulp oozed out. Had oozed out, its edges dried, though soft.

            It was me.

            The orange was, the split was, the tender fruit inside was.

            Among other things, I was also cracked, like the woeful fruit; I was comparing myself to an orange, after all.

            I was the skull, she was the hammer. I needed my release.

            I knew that before I could clean the orange, I had to see if the letter was there. It could be, I thought frantically. I didn’t open the box yesterday; it could be there! I ran out feverishly, raking a hand through my sleep-tousled hair. I didn’t care if anyone calculated the similarity of my outfit today to its predecessor as I sprinted to the mail box.

            The key in my hand, my chest heaved as I steeled myself. I stuck the key in and closed my eyes, hand shaking.

            I opened my eyes, waiting for the anticlimactic emptiness of the metal hole. Instead, there was a nondescript white envelope. Her name was on the top left corner in her large scrawl.

            It took a few moments for my mind to accept that I was finally holding her reply…she had made her decision.

            I walked back to the house, this time careful and wary of every glance my way, though the beach was empty save for a lone bartender with cares greater than me.

            In the house again, I leaned against the sliding glass door again, facing inside.

            The letter wasn’t heavy. Wasn’t very light, either. I gently slid my finger along the top crack of the envelope, allowing the gentle rip to soothe me. It didn’t soothe, though, and my gentleness belied the impatient anxiety pounding at my ribcage.

            I slid out the paper. It was real letter-writing paper, stationary, not notebook paper. My eyes slid past the salutation hesitantly.

            Tears sprang into my eyes. My knees, after logging a thousand miles, could not handle the burden of the extra emotion, and I slid down the glass, letting the tears course down my sun-baked cheeks. I couldn’t have gotten up even if I had wanted.

            Whenever I did, though, I would have to clean up that orange.

Author's Note

what do you think the letter says?

Reviews

[Gone]

First off, I loved your descriptions. There was neither too much or too little of them. And they were the kind that flow and pull you into the world. Second, poor guy! Of course you want the letter to be what he wants, but you fear that it'll be terrible news. Which I think it is? Unfortunately, probably bad, it's always bad news.