The Story Teller

SKIN

Dear Dad,

I'm going to try to make this short.

I was taught how to write letters in grade school, I know already that I am not doing it right. I can already feel your scowl, you're eyes bleeding holes into my shoulder. But I'm going to do it anyway, because I have the right, I believe. And so do you. You must.

I have known for a long time the diversities of our world, and sometimes I wonder if I am fortunate to have witnessed these things, or if I should not be living up to the expectations of a dream I will never fulfill? Is it that no one can see the world form my own perspective. That people cannot live with the fact that we are all walking sand, some burnt black, some so cold that they look like snow, some different personalities, some different sizes, but at the end of the day we are still sand. Sophisticated, passionate, but we are still sand. Aren't we?

I hope you get this.

With love,

Elena.

Dear Dad,

I know that we don't have the chance to see those we love. Even Noah cannot see them, and he was gifted with the power to see the dead. There are a lot of things he wishes to see. I remember, he told me; our dog Anthony that died, or grandpa who was buried at the cemetery. He tried a lot. He can't see you either.

I miss you. Are you hiding from us...is that it? I don't have the power to see you, but I have the power to make lies. I can wave my hand and make someone feel like they can ascend from the ground, or I can make them look in the mirror and see a better vision of themselves.

I can make them smile. I can make them laugh and jump for joy. I can make someone cry, and bawl with grief. I can make someone feel regret, make them see all their wrong doings. I know I can do it, because I have done it before.

But it's all lies. I'm not stupid, I know. But that somehow makes it a little depressing, doesn't it? So, I try not to focus on that. Dad... don't focus on our sins. Focus on all the good were yet to do. All the good things we have done, and all the good things we are yet to do. That's, what I tell myself, I can do. To get through the day.

That does not apply to you, does it?

With love,

Elena.

Dad,

Get the fuck out of that hell hole in the rich sector and come home already. I know I am a disgrace of a son, and I have lower standards of you already, but do it for Elena.

For Elena.

Noah.

Elena's scars ran deep, and in every direction, like a painting, like the veins on her heart, bulging, like the building she had almost collapsed in. Noah was even more sophisticated, but his goal was more adamant. He was going to make Elena happy. He was going to do that for as long as his miserable existence allowed him. He would.

Elena didn't know a lot. Only one thing, she wanted to be a storyteller. That was all to it. But there was something missing, something still there at the base of her finger, like a fly she just couldn't shoo away, the nagging feeling that they were all walking sand. She didn't know why that affected her so much, all she knew was that it did. They were all walking sand. Right?

Right?

Sorry, I'm an old geezer. I don't know much about that kind of stuff.