/lit/ - Literature

I am writing a fake letter as an exploration of my retardation. Here's an excerpt to the last portion of it:

Two months ago, at about half past six, I woke up for probably the last time I will ever wake up on Wyanoke and Greenmount. I’d even go as far as Baltimore, but that thought would probably send me into tears, or at least wanting to cry and never actually being able.

You set two alarms: one triggered bird calls from your phone (which I am going to keep in mind of its existence) and the other, an old alarm clock that emitted green neon and a meek blare. Around noon, you were to meet your mother in the county for breakfast, and later that day a car would be sent for you to shuttle you to Washington. You decided on your blue oxford with no tie, though I suggested you bring one just in case they made you wear one.

They did not make you wear one.

On this morning, we ate nothing. We drank no cold brewed coffee with no metallic aftertaste, no peach juice and seltzer. We ate no fancy little pastries, or juicy plums, or concentrated mango juices. We instead listened to classical music, climbed into a Jeep with no contested license plates, and spoke about airports and all topics insensitive. All in all, I’d never had so many heart palpitations, and I was never so glad to have had every last one of them.

We watched half of Lynch’s Dune the night prior. I looked up Klonopin® and snooped through your bookshelves. My friend suggested I listen to Music for Airports and perform cognitive behavioral therapy on myself. Instead, I reached for a journal with no entries except one of various anti-anxiety medications.

You said you had nothing tying you to Baltimore, and maybe you’d want to leave. I doubted it. I mean, I wouldn’t.

We went for a late afternoon stroll against some neoclassic Southern manors with carriage steps intact, and I carried a terrible umbrella with an attempted embellishment of a Monet painting. I thought it to be cheeky to have at a moment like this. The atmosphere smelled like the onset of a storm.

We cut through a park probably on Highfield.

“They say the safest place to be during a thunderstorm is under a tree.” You uttered.

“Is that true?” Of course that’s not true.

“No.”

Under the concrete awning of a large mansion, a film glossed over you and me. The solution probably consisted of equal parts precipitation and perspiration. I decided the owners were Jewish by the mezuzah that graced the door frame, but a sunroom denoted otherwise: the instruments that resided in there was only possessed by a layer of dust, and nothing more. Cellos, a grand piano, a small antique table toppled over — how could this be? It was as if the storm scared them away.

You looked upon the grassy knoll and decidedly placed your hand on the small of my back. This sent a smirk across your face. Where was Mrs. Card? I missed her so. The only way to feel vulnerable again. I longed to peer into her memory.