#1 – The Note of Fiona Raymond
I have always pondered on his countenance. I’d always wondered what he’d look like, never having seen his like before.
Is he hideous? Or beautiful? Rough? Or gentle?
Strange: That I should write of him in such a manner – as if he were a far off lover that I’d never seen and am anxious to behold.
I know not the purpose of my writing this. You always said that you could never read my handwriting… though I never quite knew if it was due to the fact that you were repulsed by it or it was simply a scrawl you could not read. However, I still believe this is necessary: even if it may be just a formality.
You’ve said a number of things to me that have always stuck in the back of my mind (though you often said that I never paid much attention to anything). One such thing being that we must all make responsible choices and reflect on the actions we make, be wary of the things we say and be cautionary on the ideas we choose to think about.
And this is the choice I have chosen to make.
Recent times haven’t been easy. And I in no way acclaim that this hardship was soley reserved on me – I am aware that you felt it too. But it’s hurt me, reader, and I feel that what I clearly could never say in words must be written here so you may understand my choice.
I am broken, reader.
I am broken, empty, and even perhaps: dead. There is nothing in me that functions as it should. No emotion exits from me as it is supposed to. I have wept, I have raged, without your knowledge, and I have cut. Even as I write this, I feel no remorse or pain – as if some unfathomable numbness has seized my entire being – and, yet, the red marks where I drew blood stare up at me: unrelenting, taunting.
I am without hunger, and yet always starved. I eat, but feel no satisfaction, but eat still – in the hope that I would feel some foreign comfort.
But what used to comfort me, comforts me no more.
My slumber brings no peace, and my wakeful hours are a blur of mechanical work and ludicrous thought. And the dreams, goodness! the dreams! I’ve woken more than once, twitching in fits of terror and misery, whilst wondering how the next day and the days to come will forge ahead. I used to stare aimlessly through the window of my bedroom, singing constantly the song of the Turning women:
“Nothing changes, nothing ever will;
Every year another brat, another mouth to fill.
Same old story, what’s the use of tears?
What’s the use of praying if there’s nobody who hears?
Turning, turning, turning
Through the years.
Turning, turning, turning through the years;
Minutes into hours, and the hours into years.
Nothing changes, nothing ever can.
Round about the roundabout and back where you began:
Round and round and back where you began…”
Tonight I’ve decided: I will stop turning. The roundabout will stop.
Reader, I’ve never had anything, I have nothing, I will always have nothing.
I am nothing.
There is something desperately wrong with my mind. The good deeds that I commit prove tiresome and feel unnecessary, whilst the evil that I do fills me with such happiness and pride.
What has happened to me, reader?
What has possessed me?
And why, oh why, does the Fighter hate me so?
Wasn’t it I that cared for her in her illness?
And took care of her household?
And fed her children?
Wasn’t it I that never wavered in my obedience to her?
In my respect for her?
In my love for her?
Did I not do what I could have done?
Am I not one of her own?
Why does she have a portion of her love for each and every one of of them, but my share is withheld? Reader, what is my crime that she should loathe me so bitterly? And now that she is dead, how can I live in peace knowing that she died loathing me, unwavering in her resentment and coldness? How, reader, must I live now that she is gone? Now that she is gone and my efforts to waste?
I cannot live, reader – thus I must at last see his countenance.
Reader, do not feel remorse in my passing. It is a choice I desired to take, and an action I have considered. Give my brother, Maurice, my love and affection – for he was the only thing that made me smile in my time of turbulence.
Tell him: I love him.
And, if it be made possible for you, please send the same message to one Max Morrison. You do not know him and you know nothing of him, but if he appears before you – relate him what has become of me, and tell him that I love him dearly, and that my passing was none of his causing. You will find him to be a sensitive, caring young man.
There’s no more to say, reader. Throughout my life, I’ve lived in admiration of you (though you may not have seen it that way) only now to be a large disappointment.
I need not sign this.
You’ll be well aware of who I am.
I, who has gone to seek Death’s countenance.