Letters to Darcy: An LGBTQ+ Novella

December 4, 2014:

December 4, 2014:

The vibrant, green planes of the endless, rolling hills flood my mind with nostalgia. My eyes track each detail as if it were the last thing I'd see. The fresh breeze whispers, thoughtlessly, through the fervent leaves—so delicate, I can almost taste its subtle sweetness. The sound of nature's chorus builds and crescendos—a climatic cacophony. The songs of birds in the trees and crickets in the grass harmonize. The brisk wind whistles against flower pedals like a fully formed woodwind section. Branches beat, rhythmically, against one another, following the breeze's melody.

Pause.

I peel myself off of the less-than-comfortable, spring mattress, joints creaking as I hoist my body up and direct my feet toward the kitchen. My mouth had been painfully dry for a few hours, but the stubborn and lazy parts of my brain tag-teamed that thought, eventually losing out to bodily needs.

The room is dark; the only light is a sterile, blue glow emanating from my too-bright laptop screen. The silhouette of a young Julie Andrews, frozen across it in an uncomfortable-looking position. I yank at the cork of an, already half-empty, bottle of Yellow Tail chardonnay and pour a little into a cheap, stemmed wine glass, courtesy of Dollar Tree. Passively humming the chorus's melody to The Sound of Music, I glance over my shoulder, eyes focusing on the dim digital figures on the small black alarm clock. 5:37 a.m. I pour a little more... and a little more. Now, the glass is nearly brimming as I lower myself back onto the worn-down, Airbnb, mattress, knees grinding in a way they probably shouldn't for a 22-year-old.

The cold, metal laptop rests against my bare thighs as I take a few deep gulps of the lukewarm white. My fingers caress the trackpad, encouraging its friend, the curser, to begin its journey toward the play button. But just as the tip of the curser kisses one of its flat edges, I feel something amphibian, in nature, enlarge in my throat. A frog has taken up residence in my esophagus.

At the same time, I begin to feel my eyes twitch as salty tears grow heavy along the crest of my eyelids—falling and crashing against the plastic surface of my laptop's keyboard, leaving microscopic tsunamis in their wake. Uncontrollably, I cry.

As 9 o'clock approaches, the inevitability of my commencing workday begins to dawn upon me. Probably, I should have made myself breakfast, brewed a pot of coffee, showered, or done any of the other things people typically do at the start of their days. Instead, I button the least wrinkled blouse I could find atop my worn, Taylor Swift, tie-dye t-shirt. I tie my hair into a messy bun and pour the remaining bit of Chardonnay (I'll have to remember to buy more) into a pale, pink coffee mug, the words "cup of happy" written across it in eloquent calligraphy, vaguely reminiscent of the script on the one ring from The Lord of the Rings. I write a loose streak of eyeliner across my upper eyelids and begin my day. The blouse only lasted the span of my morning Skype meeting, however.

Time twists and turns, bending and folding in on itself. Its primary intent: elongating my workday. The sun rises and the sun sets, and the spreadsheets grow and grow and grow. The inevitable feeling of numbness, developing from the repetition of the menial duties of my job is only amplified by the beige walls of the AirBnb.

Books have always been my greatest passion. So, when offered a remote assistant publisher position at one of the biggest publishers in the world, there was little hesitation.

In the corner of the room, sits a large stack of brown, cardboard boxes, every last one filled to the brim with books. Some are overflowing into numerous stacks of novels, novellas, novelettes, and the occasional anthology, diverse in their shapes, sizes, and colors.

Coated in sheets, blankets, and pillowcases, heavily used, the twin-size bed sat in the corner opposite the large, throne-shaped stack of boxes. Four plump, transparent, plastic storage bins lined the wall next to the door, each one filled to the brim with various articles of clothing. A fan clung to the ceiling like a sleeping bat, but I rarely find myself in need of it. Thanks to the autumn chill that bled through the window like an open wound, It was often colder than I preferred, regardless.