21 July 2008

Two Letters (yes: fiction)

Letter #1


It should come as no surprise to you that we find ourselves in this situation. Your disorderly, drunk, despicable behavior has brought all of it--us--to a disgusting, pus-filled head. And I'm just writing to say it is, finally, over. Please don't say you had no idea it would end this way, sir; you had ample warnings from both myself and from others. All of our few remaining friends let you know at one time or another just what a wastrel you had become and indeed just how short our time together was looking. I am through (for the last time!) dealing with your pathetic acquisitiveness and insecurities. BMW indeed! You are not only small-minded, you are small-souled and I believe you are having a corrosive effect upon my spirit as well. You will certainly agree with the truth: that things must end with a bang rather than a whimper (though certainly a whimper would be your wont, you simp). I have used up all of my patience; my well of understanding has run completely dry and you can only remain there, prostrate, useless as always. I should have had some clue of your flaccid temperament the day we met. Do you remember? You were laid out on that bare, filthy, rotting mattress in the alley behind Vico's. I don't believe you were even conscious at first, but as the stench from the mattress (or was it from you?) began to coalesce in the air it became too much even for your blottered olfactory sense and you arose as if from an opium haze. It was the first time you ever looked at me and it should have been a warning.

Good day and good bye, sir.


Letter #2


Honestly, my dear; what am I to make of your last, cruel missive? I don't believe I've ever been addressed with such venom and vitriol in all of my days. From anyone else it would be only putrid and meaningless babble but coming from you, dearest, it is naught but daggers in my flesh and soul (which I believe you imply has begun rather to stagnate, of late, and perhaps mutate into something that I, for one, do not recognize). It seems--correct me if I'm wrong--as though you believe there is no reciprocal fault or defect on your side of this unwholesome scenario? And I can understand how you would like that to be the case, dear, but have you become such a practiced liar that you've actually convinced yourself? If so, you are rather farther removed from reality than even I had feared. I can see you fooling Margaret and John. They are not stupid but they do grant one a lot of...oh, let's call it leeway. And Peter, now that would be easy. He is stupid.

So you have come to the conclusion that we are, or at least should be, "over". I can't say I am disappointed, Jane. Your progressive and startlingly rapid psychic deterioration over the past few weeks and months has been at the least depressive and at worst mildly horrifying to watch. Perhaps moderately soul-blistering would be a more apt phrase. It has been rather like watching a born-again Christian explore the mysteries of the Kabbalah or a devout Satanist celebrate Easter Sunday. In short, no.

It strikes me as something approaching an iron bar between the eyes that you fail to mention your own shortcomings in this "matter" as you say, but I have no problem bringing them up myself. Chiefly I would suppose to include your, shall we say, prodigious use of mind-altering narcotics. I mean really, dear, the accident was 6 years ago. Would these massively effective opiate-derived cocktails possibly have had some effect on your behavior and thus, our "relationship"? I'm thinking, YES. Particularly as they seem to have led you to be "unfaithful". That's the recognized term, though I'm not wild about it's religious implications. Still and all, that was rather a large spanner in the works, yes?

So excuse me if your self-righteous little homily doesn't move me to tears or anything other than a celebratory nightcap.

It's over? C'est la vie, darling, c'est la vie!

(No longer) yours,


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