The Letters: A Short Story

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I am so, so sorry I haven't written anything in ages. However, consider this a side-story to my Living With the Enemy reboot that I've been trying to get off the ground for a long while now. I have a lot of ideas for it. I have the plot and characters. But I can't write a good beginning to save my life. So while you're all waiting for that (I'm actually working on Chapter 2 right now, believe it or not) have a short story set in the redone LWTE universe featuring a secondary character and this story's new villain. And I mean short, only 810 words.

Enjoy!

-Rachel out.

(P.S. A certain line in here: NOT MINE. Credit goes to...uh...*goes to Wikipedia* David McDermott! (CURSE YOU DAVID MCDERMOTT! YOU RUINED MY LIFE!) If you're really curious, ask me about it)

The Letters

A Short Story by Rachel *NAME EXPUNGED*

In the last twelve months, Doctor Thompson had written forty-seven letters, all of which had a common recipient and all of which were never going to be sent. In fact, he wasn’t even sure if they would ever see the light of day. And he was convinced that, after history forgot his experiments and inventions, it would still have the letters. They, rather than anything he was particularly proud of, would be his legacy.

The recipient (or rather, designated recipient) of the letters was Doctor Thompson’s daughter, Mallory.

To say she had anger issues was putting it lightly.

And to say she had a serious grudge against her father was even more of an understatement.

But to the doctor’s credit, the first ten or so years of her life were relatively normal. She had grown up to be a quiet, intelligent, and polite little girl.

It was just the latest incident that had put her over the edge.

Doctor Thompson thought back to a year prior, when the whole mess had started.

Since age ten, Mallory had become more and more outspoken, railing against the rules her father had set for her with harsh actions and harsh words.

In other words, a typical rebellious teenager.

There was one time in particular, when after a significantly violent outburst Doctor Thompson had been forced to confine her in a room not unlike a jail cell.

He remembered walking down the hall, standing in the doorway of the room. Mallory was sitting on the corner of her bed, with her arms crossed and strands of light brown hair falling over one eye.

“Why did you put me here?” Mallory asked, voice flat and dry.

“I had no choice, my daughter. You were getting too out-of-control.” Her father answered.

Mallory pushed her hair out of her eyes and blinked at him.

“How can you say that?” she asked. “You should have tried to help me, not keep me locked in here like a prisoner.”

Then she continued.

“That’s all you know how to do, isn’t it? Keep things confined, occasionally monitoring them? Testing them? I know you, Father. You’re a scientist. In your eyes, I am nothing but your failed experiment. Your…shame.”

Doctor Thompson was utterly dumbfounded.

“I- I don’t know what to say, Mallory.” He finally stammered out.

“Why not, “I’ll help you through this”, or “It’ll be okay, we’ll get through together”?”

“Of course, Mallory, I mean all those things. But with your condition-“

“Excuse me?” Mallory interrupted, now standing up. Her eyes were narrowed and her lips pursed. “What do you mean, condition? Am I some sort of diseased pet or something to you?”

“As I was trying to explain before,” Doctor Thompson said, struggling to remain calm, “Your condition makes you a danger to others. It is unsafe for you to live outside of this room.”

“Get. OUT.” Mallory said.

“But I’m not-“

“I don’t care. GET. OUT.”

He left.

The next day, he went to check on her again.

She was no longer there.

There was, however, a note left on her bed:

Gone somewhere.

Don’t come find me.

-M

A year after that event, Doctor Thompson was still thinking about it, letting her last words to him roll around in his mind.

But instead of wandering around, saying the things he had wished he’d said to her out loud (this would make him seem mad) he instead chose to write them to her in the letters.

He then got up from his desk, reached into a place only he knew of, and retrieved those letters. They were remarkably heavy, both because there were so many of them and because they carried such emotion.

He untied the ribbon that surrounded the letters and spread them out on the desk, letting them overlap each other until there was no desk space left visible.

Doctor Thompson had never considered what he had written on the letters before (they were usually products of blind impulse), but now he looked over them and realized a number of things.

Twenty of the letters began with “Dear Mallory.” On those days, he was feeling sentimental.

Thirteen began with, “My Daughter”. On those days, he was feeling especially sentimental.

Eight began with simply, “Mallory”. On those days, he was feeling either exceptionally tired or emotionally detached from her.

The remaining six had no greeting at all. He had no defense for those.

The ultimate question, however, still remained: Why did he write them? And what was their purpose?

He suspected that he would never quite find out.

He quietly gathered the letters, tied them up, and put them back in his secret place.

Then he sat back down at his desk, got out a new piece of paper and a pencil, and began to write letter number forty-eight.