To my Dearest Friend

Your dearest friend?

My dear Yves,

How delightful to hear that it's fun there. The article was well written and I think I would've enjoyed the party very much. Tell me did your father know and did he approve? I can read your handwriting always have been able to. It's far too beautiful to have problems with reading. It's alright you didn't write. Tell me more about vincent-Lorenzo, How is Oscar? I thought we you promised your father not to have contact with him. But all that aside I must say I envy you and your ability to throw such a thing. I still miss you. Did you know Émile plays cello? not as good as you do naturally. but still. I don't have a lot to tell you this time.

I notice that instead of your dearest friend you wrote your friend? I wanted to ask if you're alright. Have I done something wrong? Oh and congratulate charles from me.

Your rain,

Your dearest friend, Cyril Courtenay

as I'm reading the letter I feel my eyes beginning to cry but I suddenly begin to laugh. My eyes convey my real emotion and my voice reflects how ridiculous this is. I laugh so hard I begin to cry again because of it. It hurts my lungs and my stomach. How clueless is he? How oblivious do you have to be? My love, My cyril. I still love him, I know that but does he not get it? Has he not learned how I work? I never said I'm the jealous type but you bet I am. I sit there. In a dark library without any light on, laughing about something that so bitterly makes me cry. How clueless have I been? How oblivious did I have to be? I will never learn. This world is not meant for me, this life is not meant for me. God is cruel and so are humans as we were created in his image.

I grab the bottle of absinthe he bought me and pour myself a glass. I don't water it down. I don't care if it's bad for me. I light a cigarette. He doesn't own my heart, he doesn't own me, he doesn't own my love, I don't owe him anything. I feel tears rolling down my cheeks. He has always owned my heart, he stil owns it, that's my problem. I love him so desperately. I love him truly, I love him. I cannot live without him evidently so I cling so desperately to the last things I have. I know he has given up long ago. He probably has his very own French Yves at this moment. I feel used, I feel betrayed, abandoned, left for dead. We were so perfect and it shattered so easily how fragile we were. How I wish we hadn't been so fragile how I wish our hearts had been made of stone and not of glass and still I suspect my heart was stone, yours was glass. You found temptation and listened to it. I still love you no matter what. I wish you were here, I wish I was there.

I saunter to my bedroom. I reek of alcohol. I lay down on my bed and look at the ceiling. The bottle of laudanum on my nightstand looks inviting. I grab it. I'm still in physical pain, so it's alright to take opium right? It's also good if you want to sleep right. I put a few drops on my tongue and I must confess that it feels euphoric.