I look at them again, the unmistakable curly cues I’ve always attached to my letters, making them undoubtedly mine. The words clumping together to form a bigger picture of a moment I have no recollection of.
I read again, searching, scanning, for a memory. My eyes lower to the date in the bottom left corner, an against the grain placement I have always done. Not many people know that, leading me to think it really couldn’t have been forged.
It’s the dried blood which I turn to next. The red fingerprints which clutch at the edges of the pages like it had been pawed at by fingers which could only have been mine. I even double-checked the whirls which have always been a part of me, particularly the jagged line along my right thumb. I press it against the bloody print which is its mirror.
What was I supposed to do with this information which was slipped under my door just past midnight on what I thought was a random Tuesday?
My mind races again over the words and the incident which is mentioned in the letters:
Whoever is reading this all I can say is I am sorry I couldn’t save them. I’m sorry we were put in the situation, to begin with. I could say that it wasn’t all my idea, that I wasn’t somehow the driving force, but that would be a lie. I am responsible and without them, there is nothing left for me here. Tell anyone who will listen that even though it failed and I am gone, I tried to save them. I tried to save us all.
Ann (without an e)
October 7th, 2018
I look over my literary-inspired moniker again. Trace it with my fingers thinking maybe the muscle memory will somehow bring something back.
I don’t realize my forehead is now touching the door, that I hold the bloody note over my now crossed legs not having moved since I first crouched to grasp it until a loud knock forces me back to reality.
As always I welcome your thoughts literary lovelies! I wish you all a happy Wednesday and may your writing prompts fill you with the desire to write something amazing.
Postscript: What are you currently reading darlings?