She sent the woods to me in an envelope, an envelope I wished I never opened.
I've been getting anonymous letters for 3 months now. And I cannot say in words how much my life has been demolished by them.
Say, stranger, are you going to read her let...
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Dear Maria,
I have spilled the milk Maria. It's all over the floor. But surprisingly I feel no intentions of cleaning it. The fear of getting caught with the white liquid freely rolling down the floor, is still not dawning on me rather for some reason my mind wants to ignore it the best it can for the time being.
So here I am, chewing on a petal while writing this letter and occasionally sparing a glance or two at the mess I have made.
Mother and Father had looked for Rory during the whole week but still no sign of him. We made flyers, posters and notices for a lost golden retriever requesting the kind soul who might have seen him play or bark on some random street to inform us on this number as soon as possible.
I'm sure me and my mom put up these posters on almost every streetlamp and pole in East Lario. I was surprised how my hands never shivered once while gluing those posters.
But these hand sure quiver from time to time especially when I try to sip some milk in my room and the memory of the lost golden retriever retrieves my mind for the umpteenth time.
It will take some time I know. It wasn't the same as last time, with the class hamster or neighbour's cat. I hate this weird weight on my chest that never lets me breathe well, these red images that flare a nasty ache in my behind my eye socket, these wet pillows and dark circles under my eyes and the same old urge for more red.
Sometimes I think about these things that I see. These grinning men and that ice cream truck and that odd lady, are they to blame for these urges? Do I see them because I'm capable of seeing demons? Or do they show themselves because I have now become one of them?
Demons. Is it even okay to call them demons?
I have no idea Maria. I wish I had. All this red all over my eyes, the pale skin of my parents, your blue eyes that once had that slight tint of a burning forest and this white, spilled all over the dusty floor. It all hurts my head.
It reminds me of that same fairy tale again.
“Do come in, and stay with me. No harm shall happen to you.”
I have heard these words before, not just in the story but somewhere by someone in the past. Or was it something rather than someone?
How old was I when I heard it? How old am I now? Sometimes I feel like I am ten, sometimes I become twenty and sometimes I feel like an eighty years old with heavy asthma and shaking hands who can't even hold a glass of milk without washing the floor with it.
Maria, have I gone too far into the woods?
Yours only,
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