Letters to the Lost Aru Shah AU

Aru

ARU

I stare at the words written on the letter. 

I know what you feel.

I felt so angry I could burst, just because of 5 little words. The guy who wrote this had no right to come in between Mom and me. The letters were just between us. And now some random person read my letter.

I looked around the cemetery. I hadn't been here since Tuesday, it was Thursday now. Usually the envelope was gone by the time I came here. Either by the wind or an animal picked it up, or some cemetery staff picked it up and threw it away.

It's a guy. I know it's a guy, from the grease stains and blocky hand writing. It has smacks of arrogance. How could he just insert himself into someone else's grief? Mom always used to say a writers words always had a bit of them. I could feel it pouring out of the page. 

I know what you feel.

Nope, not him. He has no idea.

This is unacceptable. This is a cemetery, where people grieve over their loved ones privately. This is my space to grieve. Not his.

I walk angrily across the grass, feeling angry tears burn in my eyes.

This was our thing. Mom's and mine. Now it feels like it isn't anymore. Even thought Mom can't write back anymore. It felt like he stabbed me with the pencil he wrote with, scratch that it felt like he took that pencil and stabbed me over and over again, not stopping once. 

By the time I get to the top of the hill, my chest was heaving and I felt a few tears fall out of my eyes. I probably look like a wreck. I'll probably show up to school late and with running mascara and kajal down my face. Again.

The school therapist, Mrs. Teuchert, used to pull me into her office and give me a box of tissues and smile sympathetically. But now she would pull me into her office and purse her lips in a thin line, and ask whether or not I had been going to the cemetery still. And that I should make better uses of the time.

It's not like it's any of her business thought. Plus it isn't every morning, only the mornings Dad goes to work early. Dad and I barely talk anymore, and it's because mom died. But even then Dad and I never had the kind of relationship Mom and me had. I always used to look up to Mom, I used to want to be exactly like her. 

The words written on the paper feel like a curse, a burden. All because of him. There's some dude using a leaf blower, he looks around the age of thirty. His uniform says Brody. 

"May I help you?" He asks, he has a slight accent you could barely tell it was there.

There's weariness in his voice, I can tell. He looks tired. It probably looks like I was going to file a complaint. 

Well then I'm going to give him one, as I clench my fist and crumble the letter until it was a small ball of paper.

Temper Aru.

I was never the calm one, no that was always Mom. I mean she had to be, going into war zones one after another, to capture pictures. 

I mean what can I say? That some dude had been reading letters that I wrote to my dead mother that I left at her headstone two times a week? Even if I did what could he do. Install security around my mothers headstone and make sure no one went close to it. Find the pencil stabbing guy? Yeah, not going to happen. 

"I'm fine. Sorry for the trouble."

I walk back toward the headstone and lean against it. I'm going to be late for school, but that doesn't matter. Somewhere in the distance I hear Mr. Brody's leaf blower start up again. 

I've written exactly twenty-three letters to Mom. I used to write hundreds of letters to her back when she was alive. We used to video call and text but we always wrote letters to each other. It always had more meaning. Mom always used to make time to write me a letter, no matter what. and I used to always write back. Sometimes she wouldn't get it for weeks, depending on where she was shooting. But even when she was at home I could just hand her a letter and walk right out the door. Thats how we thought, communicated. 

But now I was afraid to write a letter to her. I felt exposed, that if I wrote something else someone would read it. That I would be judged for what and who I wrote too. 

So I don't write a letter to Mom. I write a letter to him.

For those of you who don't know what kajal is, its kinda like eyeliner except you can put it in your eyes. And its healthy for your eyes, god I sound like Mini. But sorry about not having Mini in the book, but she'll be in the sequel. Actually she's the main character along with Rudy. Anyway comment on how the 2nd chapter was. Cya.

~🖤Cookie Monster🖤 (aka Luvyourcutg)