Foolishly Falling for You

22

Lance

There's a letter waiting for me, filling the tent with the familiar scent I've come to look forward to.

Admiral Lance,

I jest with you, mostly. Though I do not love you, I don't wish you death either. My feelings, once vibrant and colorful have settled down to a pale shade of indifference.

If one only read your letters, they may be able to convince themselves there was something between us. A younger, more naive version of me may have clung to every word you've written, imagining you coming back, in triumph, dipping me into your arms, with a kiss.

I could live in that moment, that moment that only exists in my mind, the sun blazing behind us, like a book I've read.

But this isn't a book I've read.

The sun is setting on us. You will not take my in your arms. You have never kissed me to kiss me. And you never will. I am alone. And I always have been.

It's not real. That relationship between doesn't exist. And I can't keep carving out my insides for the sake of a dream.

A dream that died before it ever began. A dream I planted and let take root despite you tearing it up and depriving it of sunlight. But like a weed it sprouted anyway, even under such adverse conditions.

And now I, the mother of this planet sees fit to put it out of its misery and tear it up from the roots. It's what a mother must do. Take pity on her offspring, and understand when existence is naught but suffering.

She seems to be in a state. I've never heard her speak like this. And yet her writing is compelling. Instead of reading stories perhaps she's better suited to writing them. I worry again for her health. These are not her normal ramblings, her sanity seems on the brink. I want to return to her.

I must return to her.

Despite my concerns, her doctor reports she is well. I have my suspicions about her doctor. They seem good on paper and then they get in her presence and suddenly things don't add up. She's silencing them, I think. But what is she hiding? Some illness she doesn't want to share? Some form of hysteria?

I continue reading.

I had a dream. I had a son, and he was beautiful. I named him Matteo. In this dream, I was pregnant with him. I birthed him. I raised him. Changed his diapers. Fed him from my breasts. And when he turned four I woke up. I could still smell his hair. My hands felt empty and the longing in my heart could not be quenched. I walked around this house looking for him, that's how real it felt. But it was only a dream.

He doesn't exist.

I still cry for him sometimes for him though. I loved him, my dream. I truly did. I consider you like him. A dream I mourn for. But I just set you aside, with Matteo, since god saw fit to take him away from me. And I know I am a fool. I know I am a fool for mourning someone who never even existed. It seems the only thing I know how to do.

Your regretful wife,
Anita

Regretful. She did mention whether her dream son was mine. If we were a family. Together. I could share a dream like that. I suppose I will just miss her. She's not gone. I'll go home to her. Things will be different though.

I've always hated when things were different.

I close my eyes, and sling my arm my eyes. I have a few minutes before it's back out on the front. I close my eyes and think of her, smiling in a field of flowers, telling me about her say, and a book she read and how much she missed me.

And in this memory—in this dream, I don't push her away or say something harsh. I smile back, and answer her, and ask her about her day and her favorite character. I cup her cheek, and kiss her gently, and her love radiates into me.

"I love you," she whispers.

I open my mouth to return it.

"Admiral?"

I open my eyes and glance up at Michael who nods at me, with a somewhat surprised expression on his face. "You look tired." He mutters.

"I am," I grumble back, sitting up, glancing down at her letter, the name Matteo catching my eyes. All the years we were together and I have never know what she would name a child of ours. My fingertips seek the name, brushing against the dried ink.

Matteo Mendoza. I like it. A strong name. Befitting my son. I have never thought much about children. It's good to know something else about her. I lick my lips, examining her handwriting.

My wife. My poor beautiful wife who had loved me. I was in her heart, her skin, her dreams. But I have forsaken her, and now...she cleanses me from her. Purging me from her body. From her mind. From her dreams.

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Chapter 23 is up on Patreon. Read it a week early or wait until 4/15/23 to read on wattpad!