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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I am sorry
Dear Maria,
It's cold. The air on the roof top. Why on earth is it so cold? I can see the sun rising from the east, I have been seeing it rise from there every morning, above the tall trees, behind the small red mountains, enlighting Mrs Percy's tattered house in some mysterious holy way as if declaring to the world of her current home in heaven.
Mr Hartman's garden is barren. Without the man himself, the flowers didn't live, couldn't live, not anything of his family's concern. The man alone dared to raise flowers in a family of military line.
It feels odd to look at the house in the east or the said garden of our neighbour. It hadn't even been a full month and it's all ruins. Her house, his garden, the things they cherished. So many people wailed at the funeral and yet in the end no one really cares. How odd. I wonder if those tears were eyedrops afterall.
I wonder how it was when you left. I don't remember anymore, that day or was it a night? That night....
I cared Maria. Even after you were gone I always put roses on your favourite vase, been writing you letters, giving you flowers.
There are no flowers left, someone decorated a coffin with them. The vase too seems broken. And I know you are no longer a nerd spending your entire day by father's bookshelf. You don't like fish anymore and mother's cooking is no longer your favourite. You no longer watch silly anime on your free time, no longer put on posters of your favourite characters. I know you, by now, must have forgotten about the genre of your favourite music. Then again, you would always switch between genres, always keep experimenting with them until some stray lyrics would carve a scratch on your heart and you would barge into my room with your phone and earplugs in hand, "try this Fiona it's awesome!"
It's been two years. You are no longer fifteen. You are no longer alive.
Time changes things and things change many more things. If only that day we hadn't gone to the forest and met the witch, I wonder how our lives would have been.
Yes I have finally settled on calling it a witch. It sounds the most accurate.
That day the dawn was so beautiful. At the very end of the cliff the orange peeking from the dark sea of green. I have never seen anything more beautiful than that. The picture of the scenery has long been taken down from my room but in my memory it's there, stagnant.
It was so heavenly that I wanted time to stand still there. Why didn't it stand still there? Why did things happen the way they did? Why did we see the witch? Why did I push grandma off the stairs when I very much knew it would break her neck and she would never tell us stories again? Why did I have to kill Rory? Why did I kill mother and father who only tried to keep me safe? Why did I kill Mrs Percy, a scared woman who needed help? Why did I kill mr Hartman when I very much knew that he was not a creep but just lonely?
Why did I kill you Maria?
That night, under the starry sky, in front of the same woods, on the lap of that old Christmas tree,why did I stab you?
I have done so much then WHY on earth don't I remember?
Was it even me who killed you all? If not, then who? Who is actually writing this letter? To whom is it being written to?
The girl in the mirror seems so odd, it sometimes freaks me out. So pale, so thin, so tired, so dead. She is dead. I killed her too. She is me. I killed myself. How can someone kill themselves and be able to write letters? At this point, I have no idea.
These letters might be a small story. A story that starts with a weird twist of a fairy tale. Hansel and Gretel perhaps went into the woods in search of the witch. But the witch was never found. The house of sweets, prisoners in cages were all dreams and lies. Gretel who loved her brother dearly chopped off his head and stabbed him to death. She took his head, put it in a cage and hence carried his brother with her ever since. Men were called, the villagers were informed of a wild old woman living alone in the forest. Soon captured and perhaps executed.
Hansel and Gretel met the witch. The witch was the woods. The witch was Gretel.
The witch is me. And I am the woods.
I all this time, have been the Gretel and too bad you had to be my Hansel.
Maria, I am sorry.
Your affectionately, Y o u r d e a r s i s t e r
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