Homeland

Letter Five

Citudaolle,

            My hair.  My pride and joy.  Your pride and joy too, you claimed.  That tumbling waterfall of wavy mahogany thickness.  I still remember the feel of your fingers running through my hair, your moist breath on the back of my neck.  You would whisper promises, whisper poems.  You would also whisper, sometimes, that you loved every part of me, but my hair the most.  I would laugh, and tell you to stop teasing me.  You would swear it was true, and if I were to cut off my hair you would try every possible mean to end your existence.

            When I was banished to this world, the Earth, I kept them.  My hair.  For the longest time it fell to my below my knees.  I felt like that was the only thing keeping me to you.  I felt like you were watching, perhaps from some machine the government used to spy on the other Earth and the Heavens, and I wanted to be beautiful for you, so I kept them.

            Yesterday I became suddenly, intensely furious at you.  It was the first time in about a century that I had been this mad at you.  You are the only reason I want to go back to Hell.  But I couldn't go back, and the yearning was so painful.  I started thinking bad thoughts about you, recalling bad memories.  Trying to convince myself there was no reason to love you.  It only made me more upset.  I wanted you to feel the pain that I felt. 

            But I couldn't do anything to you.  I couldn't get to you.  So I did the next best thing.  Do you recall how we would lay in bed, and you would finger my hair, and declare that you would be mortified if I should cut the glossy mahogany forest of my hair?

            I was mad enough to do it.  I would have done it before, but before this century, it was unacceptable for a woman to have short hair.  It was a disgrace.  But now it isn't.  I only started feeling remorse when I felt the barber's scissors slice through my hair.  It made a terrible sound, and I felt suddenly lighter, colder.  I could feel the blades chopping off each individual hair.  She cut it as short as I asked, all the while staring at me oddly through the mirror.  She cut my hair shorter than most boys.  Each hair a mere centimeter in length.  I almost cried.

Of course, I didn't.  I haven't shed a single tear for you in half a millennia. 

            The first coherent thought when I walked out of the barber shop was that I hoped you would stay true to you promise and try to die.  It wouldn't work, but the effort would be nice.  The second thought was: don't.

Khlamuherguetora.  

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Heehee.  I decided to be nice and write a little something.  But I also decided to be a little mean, and delay the entrance of the new character until the next letter.

don't hate meeeeeeeeee...