Letters From G.

7

I rose early. Earlier than usual. Having fallen asleep before the sun,and still resting for over ten hours, I found myself awake just after six. Preparing the kettle, I rummaged through my cupboards until I found something to snack on. Some protein bar or morning energy something or other. I walked to the cluttered table, sat in my usual chair, and read again the letter that G had sent me.

The words refreshed in my mind, refueling my desire for content, I shuddered at the realization that I had obtained no new information on Henry. Therefore, I was still struggling with the words required to respond to the letter. Henry, as I was attempting to play, was still just an idea. A shallow representation of a person, dull without the details. Without the background of an individual, you lack that which is most important, that which gives one what we term personality. That part of my Henry was still in development and I could, in no good conscience, continue without it. I had to refrain from replying until construction was complete. That meant I needed,yet again, another plan.

After pouring my tea, I paced about the room, searching my brain for another idea. My options seemed to be just above nil and my waning will was beginning to become a burden. Back and forth, I walked from my stove to my table and return, G.'s letter firmly in my grasp. It had already been several days since I had received it and I felt that waiting too long may scare away whoever he was. I hoped, however,that the original letter had been enough to interest him into keeping in correspondence.

At last, I decided to rest my mental faculties, and instead return to the video store, smoke the remaining pot I had left, and give myself a break. I showered, dressed, made and ate a full breakfast, then left for the store.

The mindless driving calmed me and put me in a rather uplifting mood by the time I arrived. The video store was nearly empty, as usual, and was quiet aside from the sound of an old black and white zombie movie playing on a screen above the counter. Personally, I find zombies to be quite overvalued and the overall experience is never engaging as much as I would like it to be.

Half an hour later, after perusing through aisle after aisle of tasteless trash, I found something to keep my mind distracted. It was another Asian movie; this one about a distraught designer fashioning themselves as the Ed Gein of glamour. They had started out with animal skin skirts and furry jackets but soon grew tired of the same old samples and realized that human skin was the obvious continuation in the trend. I grabbed a few classics that I had seen before,planning to spend the entire day in front of the television, paid the clerk, and left the store to return home.

I was sitting there, stoned, watching the designer cut the skin off one of her assistants. The movie was a little more generic than I was hoping. It had quickly turned from an odd hobby of hers, killing and skinning cats in her basement before sewing them into clothing, to a mundane slasher film within minutes of the opening. I was disappointed in this turn of events and my mind drifted from the movie and back to the problems facing me. I thought, again, about the house and the way it looked pristine in every way, like nothing ever changed. I scanned my memory of the house, trying to remember any detail that I might have overlooked. Honestly, I wasn't very focused on the upkeep of the house at the time, other than a cursory glance as I waited at the door. It is quite unbelievable that I was able to remember a detail, so small, such as the continuous overflow of mail to Henry's mailbox. I realized that the mailbox was at the capacity of bust and sprang from the couch and ran, leaving the screams of the woman on TV chasing me through the door.

I continued running, fast as I could, until I stood before the box. The mail was pressed in so tightly that the lip no longer shut. Envelope after envelope had been stuffed through, angrily it seemed, into the mess that clearly had not been tended to. Pistons were firing and thoughts were forming, rapidly leading to dread, then wonder, then excitement, and always ending in gloomy clarity. I was there,standing at the box, staring at it, but without purpose. I had no idea what to do. I became aware that my actions of running out of my house, running down the street, and stopping dead still in front of the house of a man who no one had probably seen or heard from in quite some time, may seem rash to the more unadventurous people in my neighborhood, which may result in the deploying of the anti-adventure assholes better known as the police. Forgive my language, but as I'm sure you can understand, the police are not a delight on duty when it comes to my hobby. They tend to frown on things that tend to be required in the retrieval of information. Things such as I knew I must do to gather what I needed. Things like breaking into 1114.