The Murder House

Twenty - Letter Five

       I have spoken so much with varied voices.

I have repaid my debts to the Russo bloodline, I took a life to save many more. You may wonder what Romani would have turned out as, would he have been a good father? Would he have stood by Raoul Dante during his GCSEs? Would he have loved River as she him? I can answer these questions, he would have been a good father eighty percent of the time but like he broke with River his patience would snap. He would have stood by Raoul Dante making flash cards and continuously testing him. He would have put little notes all over my walls until River demanded them to be taken down because she fell on one. Yes, he would have loved her but not as she loved him, their love would never be the same if the outcome had been different. They would be two different people clinging onto a child's dream, love is not a victory march it is a cold and broken marathon. I do wish I could speak only nice of him but I can not and do not wish to soil myself with him any longer. You may argue that I killed him too early or he should not have died, I like to believe he did not die too soon. I like to believe he left early to avoid the traffic, and I implore you to believe the same. I can say this is the end of his story but mine will continue, as well my spirits. It is not the end for Rusty and Clementine, Raphaël and Arcelia. I too have to make up my actions to my dear Aurélian. Once my dear brother read me a poem Bernard found inspiring.

"Life is for the living,
Death is for the dead,
Let life be like music,
And death the unsaid note,"

I do quite like it, I see it as stopping the living from worrying about death because they are not dead. I put it in here to remind you my child that yes death is a ever looming threat but it is a natural occurrence. You should never fear death, but how it is thrust upon you. I do not fear my demise, I fear being old and abandoned my walls so weakened that even the gentlest of breezes threatens to break me. I do not wish to be some liability and I fear one day I will no longer be a valued asset. One day I will be looked upon as a time capsule, my wooden floors taken to museums with exhibitions upon my bloodline. I will be a folks tale as so many else have become. Promise me one thing my child, promise me I will be more than a folks tale to you, tell my story to your children and your grandchildren. Keep me alive and thrumming through your veins, even if I am thought about once in a blue moon.

Please, I implore you to never forget me.

That is my greatest fear, being forgotten. I die every time my windows are closed too hard, I die every time paint flakes off my walls, I die every time my doors are slammed or my walls dented. I die a little each and every day but memories keep my core beating like a wasps nest that will not die. I do hope you have learnt something through our time together, and I do hope you will join me on our next adventure. This is not the end of the Bellerose tale. Who knows, the next may allow more insight into my dear brother and how he perceives himself. Over the course of this recounting I have went from loathing to loving, I no longer am a cynical, band hating House. I understand they each had their own reasons, their stories are unfolding within my walls. The choices are under my roof, each choice holds my teachings and my seeds I sown in those who pass through me. I must plead you to see the growth I have went upon, I must thank you for coming along.

It had been terribly entertaining yes?

I can not wait to continue our time together, I do hate goodbyes. I am not a House accustomed to such greetings which results in a House unable to say the simple word. Let us not say goodbye nor farewell, let us say until next time, until the next recounting may appear. My walls are filled with love and laughter, the author finishes the last sentences of her book before looking up. She smiles at the elegant miniature horse called a dog who lazes at her feet, he stands to get stroked before laying his head on her stomach.

"Bazza," she smiles. "Shall we write your mams now?"

He tilts his head to the side, sitting down. The author pulls out one of his treats, his mouth is larger than her forearm yet she doesn't pull away. He gently takes the treat, laying down in front of my roaring fire. Soon he will return home to his mother who is living within my dear brothers walls. Soon I will return to see you my child, but in the mean time I will wait forever more for you to return to me. I do hope you have enjoyed our time together, I have, so much of our time together will be left behind within the pages of this book. I will continue to write to you until we are reunited again.

You made the morning sun no longer lonely.

For that, all I can say is thank you, thank you for bearing with me, thank you for listening to my ramblings, thank you for seeing me in a light no one else has, thank you for keeping me in your mind, thank you for loving me and my spirits when no one else will. Thank you for allowing a lonely House some company.

Just like that, thirty six became thirty seven.

The Murder House, September 2024.