Unsent letter #9

Dear You,

What happened there? Was it the same that happened here? Did you go away? Taken leave of your senses? Have you been on hol­i­day? I have. Months ago, I packed my single shabby suit­case and scarpered. I shrugged off this incess­ant whirl and joined the rat race. Have you ever taken a hol­i­day with the rats? You should. It would suit your tem­pera­ment down to the last gasp. No for­eign travel required. Noth­ing to declare.

The rats and I, we scur­ried up through the drains and left our drop­pings in the four corners of your decay­ing base­ment room, in the wood and worn sheets that now com­prise your fleet­ing his­tory in dust. I will con­fess that such activ­it­ies weren’t entirely pleas­ant, but it was a relief to be a creature of such dis­gust­ing, depraved habit: alive to my true nature, alive to the filth and degrad­a­tion we could only ever allow ourselves to sink into after dark, long after midnight.

I am still away. Still bid­ing my time and los­ing yours. I have not returned home. Yet.

My hol­i­day routine is well estab­lished. I take my towel to the beach every morn­ing, with noth­ing more on my feeble mind than soak­ing myself to the skin in the salty seas and the toxic waste. I sit on the sands to dry my outer layer to a thin crust, and con­tem­plate the castles sur­round­ing me, won­der­ing if you are hid­ing in one of their tur­rets. I buy sea­side rock and etch all your vari­ous given names and pseud­onyms through it, from one end to the other, before greed­ily suck­ing the sug­ary sick­ness from it. I some­times tell myself that this is what your bones might taste like. I must remem­ber to ask the rats when they return with their bel­lies full of your flesh, but their eyes still red and raven­ous for more.

I am mail­ing this to you on a pic­ture post­card. Turn it over. This is the pier. That’s me, stand­ing at the very tip and throw­ing a life­belt into the sea below. Maybe I thought you were drown­ing. This is my deck­chair. That’s me, sag­ging like a dead weight at its centre, and shield­ing my eyes as I squint out to sea in search of passing ships. Maybe I thought you were sail­ing some­where. This is the view from my cheap and faded hotel room. That’s me, stand­ing at the win­dow whilst sip­ping a stewed Eng­lish brew. Maybe I thought you were join­ing me for after­noon tea.

And this — this is the exact spot where I poked a stick in the sand and wrote a mes­sage. That’s me, watch­ing it being washed away by the oncom­ing tide, only moments later. Maybe I thought you had already read such words before.

Weather indif­fer­ent. Sand in every crevice, every pore. Candy floss mak­ing small chil­dren spew pink vomit down their fronts. Family-run sea­side hotel in fos­sil­ised state, circa 1950. Wish you were here. Or at least I would, but I have yet to decide whether that should be a ques­tion or a statement.

Yours forever,
An Unre­li­able Witness