Letters To The Dead

Chapter 1

Beth,

Well. Hey. It's me, Lily.

Bare with me, I actually never done anything like this before. Maybe I would have done something like this if it weren't for the war, write to someone famous like you did in year seven and hope they would respond. They probably would have gotten their poor assistant to read it and like with every letter, they would roll their eyes and respond with the same shit they put in the letter before.  But it's not like that. I'm twenty-two, no sorry, twenty-three years old and that's not the kind of world I live in now. To be honest, no one really lives in that kind of world. Not anymore.

Am I even doing this right? Oh, you know, the whole writing letter thing to somebody that has died. Ten years. That's how long it has been since I last saw you but to be honest it feels like another lifetime entirely, one where we both were just scared kids trying to survive in an apocalyptic world. A world that neither of us belonged in. Sometimes it feels like I'm still there, hiding and trying to survive everyday. And in a way, I am.

Now you're dead and I'm stuck in America, trying to make a life for myself. And I've tried, you know. I've had jobs to keep myself busy and when those didn't work, didn't distract me from suffocating in my emotions, I travelled around a bit in Africa and tried the whole intimacy thing with a bunch of people. Not that I'm any good at intimacy. But most of the time it doesn't seem to do anything. And sometimes when I feel like I'm getting somewhere, I end up taking a dozen steps backwards anyway. It's not easy to pretend you're okay when you're not. Which is why I suppose I'm doing this, the whole letter thing, as bottling stuff up isn't healthy for anyone. According to Rosie's weird psychiatric nurse friend, that spends way too much time in front of the mirror, it's taking years off my life. That should be on a fridge magnet. Bottling stuff up takes years off your life. Give it some bright colours and turn the phrase all catchy and rhythmic, and it's good to go.

Not that I would tell him this, as his egotistical head is already bigger than his ass, but he's right. Well, kind of. I am bottling stuff up, emotions, and it's getting me into trouble. To be honest I'm not looking for it, it just happens. I'm not as bad as I used to be when I first came to America. Anyway, you used to do the same to, back when you were alive. Before the war, almost every night you would have come home with a few coppers. Vandalism. Disorderly conduct. Mum used to be so furious and screamed the place down for hours. That's why I picked you for this thing. I know you get it. You won't look at me with that look, the pity mixed with frustration, that I'm doing this. Well, you're dead so you aren't able to but despite that you get it. You get that I'm trying not to think or feel but to distract myself from that empty hole inside.

I remember how I hated those screaming matches Mum had with you. Back then, they used to scare me so much. Make me freeze on the spot because the people I love more than anything were fighting. Now they kinda pale in comparison with the other stuff that has happened. After those matches, you were so drained. You were always trying to hold back tears when you were around me. At the time I didn't realise it but now I know it was your way of being strong around me, so that I didn't see you break.

When I was seven, and you were fifteen, you used to tiptoe into my room and crawled into my Jurassic Park bed, wanting to cuddle up. You were drunk off your socks, humming eighties songs out of tune and oh boy you stunk. Sour grape, strong cigarettes that smelled like Dad's sweaty armpits when he used to go fishing out with his lads and cheap stale mints. Probably to attempt to hide the fact that you smoked weed and drank like a bloody pirate. Not that those mints worked because anyone a mile away could instantly tell what state you were in. Maybe then I should have realised how sad you were, but I wasn't exactly the brightest of kids seventeen years ago.

Sometimes it only feels like yesterday when you used to do this. Now when I wake up in the middle of the night, I hold my breath and wait. I'd be so still, heart pounding away in my chest. If I move in a certain position, I would hear it as if it's right next to my ear. And I would watch my bedroom door, and I would be hoping that the old creaking in the hallway is you coming up.  Perhaps to hum another out of tune eighties song or to comfort me after I have another nightmare. Then I would wait a few moments more and that's when I would hear Rosie's voice talking to that annoying ugly fur-ball beast, that cat, and I remember.