I wrote this piece about a year ago when I was in love with a girl who was a lot like Eddy. It's still one of my favorites. Love, EddyEddy was broken. No, not broken. Shattered. Decimated. Those were the kind of words that described her.
Eddy was beautiful. More than beautiful, actually. Stunning, and radiant, and perfect in every way. That’s what I thought of her. Even a cracked vase makes for an aesthetic picture. And until that day, that’s all Eddy was. A picture. A lot of pictures, actually. And letters, too. Dating back years. I’m sure she had pictures of me in her London apartment. She told me she lived in London. I told her I would visit. I didn’t for so long. This is not a story. It can’t be a story, because if it was a story, that would mean it has an end. It can’t have in end. If it had an end, I wouldn’t know what to do myself, because if it had an end, I know exactly what it would be. No, this is not a story. I’m not sure what it is, but it’s not a story. It was warm. Early August. Exactly seven years, four months, and ten days from today. I remember the sun on my face. I was in a park, I think, but there weren’t many trees. That’s odd, now that I’m looking back, because Massachusetts parks have trees. I must be misremembering. It seemed sunny. I was walking in the park, and a thought just sort of came upon me all at once. I noticed all the people in the park, and I suddenly wished I could know someone without really knowing them. So, I ran back to my apartment, and I wrote a letter. I didn’t know her name, then. I didn’t even know she was a she. I knew nothing. I just wrote a letter to a mystery person and addressed it. I didn’t know if the address was real, but I didn’t much care. I put the letter in an envelope and stuck a stamp on it. It had an apple on it. I used to have so many stamps when I wrote to her. I sent the letter and waited. I waited halfheartedly, getting on with my life, not thinking that my letter would be responded to. And then, it was. About a month later, I got her letter. The first. It was in a tan envelope. She had tied a red string around it and had made sure that the two loops were exactly the same length. I know now that that was the sort of Eddy thing that made her Eddy. I didn’t know that then. The letter was cute. Eddy was cute. I didn’t know that then, either. She wrote with such excitement. She thought my letter was so exciting. I was glad. She told me everything. Or, everything that was everything at that time. I didn’t know why. I didn’t know her. She told me of her London apartment, and her guitar songs, and her black poodle named Zebediah. She also told me about herself. She told me she had green hair. Green. I thought that was ridiculous. Perfect. She told me she had brown eyes. She told me she was alone. She had been for years. She never knew her parents. I thought that was sad. She said it was a blessing. Apparently, they were addicts. She didn’t tell me of what. Never did. I think it must’ve been meth. Her handwriting was so neat, and her words were so eloquent. She ended her letter with Love, Eddy. I thought it was odd. Perfect. I wrote back. I told her I had black hair. Normal. Boring. My eyes were ice blue. Less boring. I told her that my parents lived in Italy. I said that I thought Zebediah was a good name for a dog. I told her I trusted her, and I didn’t know why. I said I wanted to see her green hair, and I sent her a picture of me. My hair was long then. Below my butt. In the picture, it was in two braids. I ended my letter with Sincerely, Aurelia. I wasn’t ready to say love. Now I think maybe I should’ve been. In her next letter, Eddy sent me a picture. It was her, hugging her dog and smiling so wide it made me smile. And there, of course, was her green hair. It was lime green, and short. Not normal or boring at all. Perfect. On the picture, she had written in matching green gel pen Zebediah says Aurelia is a good name for a human. That made me laugh. Eddy was funny. Perfect. She ended this letter with Much love, Eddy. I held onto those words like a life raft. We talked like this for years, and we sent pictures. Eddy’s hair went from green, to purple, to blue, to red, and then green again. The green was my favorite. When I cut my hair, Eddy said it was beautiful. I ended a letter in Love, Aurelia five years after Eddy sent me her first. Eddy said that made her smile. She used to smile more. One day, her letter came, and I could tell she wasn’t as Eddy as usual. She said she was sad. She said she couldn’t stop tapping her hands and feet. She said she was anxious. She said she was crying every night. She said she hurt herself. I cried for weeks after reading that. She still ended her letter in Love, Eddy. I told her I loved her. I told her she was worth everything. I told her she didn’t deserve to hurt. I told her I’d come visit. I sent her pictures of everything that made me happy. I sent her a rose petal. I ended my letter in Love, Aurelia. She said she was scared. She was scared of herself, but also of others. She said that she was playing at a concert, and a group of men attacked her. She didn’t go into detail. I could fill in the blanks. She said she stopped going out, and she said she was going to lose her apartment. She said she didn’t care. About anything. She said she cared about me. Her handwriting wasn’t as neat as it used to be, and her pictures weren’t as happy. Love, Eddy. I kept telling her I would visit. I kept loving her. I kept writing and trying to make her feel better. I loved her so, so much. She lost her apartment. Her letters began being written on scraps of things. There was no more red string. She would stop sentences in the middle and never finish them. Sometimes, the letters would end with Love, Eddy. Sometimes, they wouldn’t end at all. I think she forgot. I only visited last year. She told me where she was staying. Her friend had given her a small apartment. When I saw her, I cried. I knew she was broken, but the girl I saw was demolished. Wrecking-balled. Her green hair had grown out and she hadn’t bothered to dye the roots. She never forgot that. Her makeup was weeks old. Her apartment was a mess. She was so, so skinny. But then I saw her room. Her carpet had blood on it. Empty pill bottles littered the floor. They weren’t necessary, she told me, but they helped. I disagreed. Her shower was clean, but only because she didn’t use it. Her entire life was broken. Except for the letters. She showed me her nightstand, and inside were the letters-- my letters-- all neatly filed away chronologically, and a photo album of all the pictures I sent her. She told me I was all she had left to live for. I said that wasn’t true. She said it was. I said what about Zebediah. She said he was taken. This made her cry again. The week I was supposed to stay turned to two, and then three. I helped her clean up. I got her to go to the hairstylist. When she saw her brand new green hair, she really smiled. She said thank you. That made her happy. She was still broken, but I was helping to put back the pieces. We hugged a lot. Then we kissed. Then we really kissed. Like two people in love. Which we were. I stayed in London for almost two months. I quit my job. She asked me to marry her. I said yes. We kissed. When I was at the airport, about to go back to Massachusetts to collect my belongings before moving in with her, she cried. She told me not to go. I told her I’d be back. I promised her. She said she’d be here when I returned. We kissed again. Then I left. Only for another two months. I got my visa. I sold my apartment. I packed up and then, I boarded a flight to London. My boarding pass said one-way. I still have that boarding pass. When I got to London, I called her. She didn’t answer, but I thought nothing of it. I made excuses for her. I waited for three hours at the London airport. I waited three hours for the only woman I had ever loved to pick me up. I waited three hours for my fiance. I didn’t cry. I should’ve, but I didn’t. After three hours, I was told to leave. I got a taxi and went to Eddy’s apartment. I had a key, so I let myself in. She kept her apartment in order. It was clean, the way I left it. She had bought a queen-sized bed. For us. Her shower wasn’t as clean. That made me happy. She was getting better, I thought. But she wasn’t. She wasn’t getting better, and she wasn’t there. Her apartment was empty. Then I knew she wasn’t just out. She was gone. I cried. I found her journal. I hate myself for doing it, but I read it. Then I could see she wasn’t getting better. She was so, so, sad. More than sad. I didn’t know the term “depressed” then, but that’s what she was. I moved into her apartment. I still live there. When she comes back, I’ll be here. I still love her. I still write her letters and put them in her mailbox. The mailbox for her apartment that I’m living in. I feel like a trespasser, but I need to be here when she returns. She will return. That’s why this isn’t a story. Because this isn’t the end. Eddy wouldn’t just leave me. She loved me. I know she loved me because she said so in her journal. I love her. We’re still engaged. I still wear her ring. She can’t just leave and never come back. I know she’ll be back. Eddy doesn’t just leave. That’s a coward’s move. Eddy’s not a coward. She has green hair. I’m waiting for her. I will wait forever if that’s what it takes. I don’t look for her because I know she’ll come back. She has to. She has to. Love, Aurelia
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Twisted talesAll you read here is fiction, although it is prompted by what I see around me. ArchivesCategories |