The Letters
Rose | Erina Countiho | Painting
The Letters by Elisha Robinson and Jaimie Lee
“I’ll love you forever,” I choked through a sob. Before me was a sea of mourners, all drenched in black -- it didn’t feel real. I looked over at the picture of my mother, and a darkness clouded my head. My eyes were swollen and my head was aching from all the crying I had done the past few days. Beautiful pink peonies lay across her casket. “Your favorite flowers,” I started. “Just for you mom. I can’t believe you’re gone.”
I looked through the crowds and saw some familiar faces. They might think they knew my mom, but they didn’t know the real her. They also didn’t know that her death was all my fault.
It happened a couple weeks ago on a normal Tuesday night. I was driving her home when I somehow slammed the car right into a tree. I thankfully escaped death after a ten-day stay in the hospital. My mother, unfortunately, was not so lucky. Whenever I try to remember what exactly happened, my mind turns to dust. The doctors said I developed retrograde amnesia, a stage 4 concussion, and also, conveniently, piercing headaches that attack my head periodically. As my mother’s funeral came to a close, I received condolences from more people than I could count.
Worthless comments by strangers filled my ears as I traveled through the crowd. “She was a wonderful woman,” said one. “You’re so strong. Your mother would be proud,” relayed another. My emotions were like a snake wrapping around my throat, completely suffocating and leaving me unable to speak. I simply flashed a smile to mask my numbness.
“I’m so sorry sweetie,” said Joane, the next door neighbor, as she wiped her tears. Even with all the people around, I felt more alone than ever. Who really were all of these people? Did they actually know the true Erica Lindberg? She was not perfect, and sometimes I questioned if she really loved me. Nonetheless, she was my mother, and her death made my heart feel like it was getting picked apart by vultures. I was whipped back to reality when I came face to face with my ex-best friend, Anna.
“Hi Cynthia,” she said with a faint smile.
“What are you doing here?” I questioned.
“I know we’ve had a rocky past, but I really just wanted to tell you I’m sorry. I never liked your mom for what she did, but I still know how hard this is for you. I thought it might be nice if you saw a familiar face.” She anxiously tucked a strand of her black hair behind her ear. “Anyways, I should get going. I know we haven’t talked in a while, but reach out if you need anything. Really, I mean it.” She rested her clammy hand on my shoulder, which sent a chill down my spine. She turned to walk away, her black locks whipping around her shoulder as she did so.
Unsure of what to make of the interaction, I headed towards the bathroom to try and relax myself. I reached into my pocket to take a swig from the metal flask I had packed just in case I became too overwhelmed. I felt instantly at ease as the smooth liquid slid down my throat. Suddenly, one of the bathroom stalls opened and a woman walked out. I did a double take before I realized it was my Aunt Rosa, whom I hadn’t seen ever since she left town many years back. I quickly hid the alcohol -- I didn’t need anyone to know I was drinking at my Mom’s funeral.
“Why hello dear,” Rosa said. “How are you holding up? Not well I imagine.”
“You know, I’ve been better.” She moved forward to give me a hug. As I embraced her, I breathed in her trademark scent of cigarettes and roses. I missed that smell. I missed her. But I was also angry at her for abandoning me. How could she just up and leave like she did?
“Well, I really should be getting back out there,” I remarked. As mad as I was at Rosa, I didn’t hate her, but I really didn’t feel like talking to anyone. I could only say a couple words before the snake began to wrap around my throat again, leaving me crying and unable to speak.
“Yes, of course. You know where to find me if you need anything. And don’t worry, everything will be just fine,” she reassured me. I quickly left and wandered around the funeral home until all the guests had gone. When I hopped in my car, I was blinded by a ray of sunshine. My concussion caused me to be sensitive to bright lights, so I reached for my sunglasses and drove home.
“Stupid purse,” I murmured to myself as I approached the front door of my house. I pulled knick-knacks out by the fistfull, hoping to locate my house key. Lipstick? No. Advil? No. Glasses? No. It seemed like my house key didn’t want to be found. At last, I wrapped my fingers around a thin piece of metal and pulled the taunting key out. As my eyes glanced at the door to unlock it, a yellow envelope with a red stamp met my eye. It had been taped to the door, and I carefully peeled it off.
“To Cynthia,” it read. I wondered what it was. Probably just another shallow condolence note. Turning the key in the lock, the heavy wooden door opened and I stepped inside. I placed my purse on the ground, and letter in hand, I headed towards the kitchen. The plastic chair dragged across the wooden floor as I pulled it out from under the table. With a huff, I sat down and opened the typewritten letter.
“Cynthia, how are you on this fine evening of your mother’s funeral? Jolly, I assume, based on the circumstances. I have been watching you. For quite a while now. You might be able to fool everyone else, and even yourself, but not me. Your mother’s death was your fault. And I know you did it on purpose. Just know I will continue watching you, Cynthia. Just like I watched you today at the funeral (yes, I was there). While you soak in your grief, truly think about the problem. Maybe you should eliminate the problem. End it, just like you ended your Mother’s life. Who or what it is? Well that is for you to determine. I’ll be in touch.”
The sinister words left a pounding in my chest as questions started to fill every corner of my head. Who wrote the letter? What did they know about my Mom? Who or what is the problem they are referring to? I began to feel overwhelmed and tears started to gush down my face. Letter in hand, I marched out the front door, back into my car, and drove off to the police station.
I sat in the waiting room of the Brookmoore police station with the yellow letter in my fist and tears still steaming down my face.
“All my crying is ruining my makeup!” I exclaimed. I even put on waterproof mascara and extra setting powder on this morning to prepare for the emotional day, but it was no match for the pools of tears that lay on my cheeks.
“Don’t worry, you could not look any worse than you already do,” an officer said as he approached me. He laughed, and I realized he just tried to make the most poorly executed joke I have ever heard. He obviously has no sisters. Stunned and embarrassed, I looked up at the deepest blue eyes I had ever seen. I swear I got lost in them. He flashed a small smile through his grungey auburn beard and I could feel my cheeks run red.
“Are you trying to be rude?” I questioned the blue-eyed officer. “Why would you say that to a crying girl? You obviously have no sisters,” I continued as I examined his face more. He had one of those friendly faces, one that looks like you’ve met them before. In his trusting eyes, I saw a story. He had been hurt before.
“Sorry,” he chuckled. “Bad joke. You’d be wrong about that one. I actually have four older sisters. And by the way, you couldn’t look ugly if you tried,” he said with a smile. “The name is Duffy. Patrick Duffy.”
“Cynthia,” I found myself blushing at his comment. “Cynthia Lindberg.” His humor was lacking but simultaneously endearing. Not to mention the infectious smile that spread across his face. It almost made me forget about the strange events that had happened that day.
“Well nice to meet you, Cynthia. What brings you in here? Besides getting insulted by a police officer?”
“I definitely needed some extra insults on top of the day I had,” I frowned. Duffy’s face took on a puzzled look. “Funeral,” I said, answering the question that was about to escape his lips.
“Oh,” he replied. “Sorry to hear that.” I shifted the conversation, out of fear that we would have to talk about my mother.
“Anyways, I came home to an unsettling letter taped on my door.” I handed him the letter and watched him quickly read it over. His eyebrows furrowed and his face dropped as he looked over the words typed on the page.
“That is more than unsettling. That is flat out horrifying,” he sighed, “Man, I haven’t seen someone use a typewriter in ages. I’ll tell you what. Let me go run a fingerprints test on this and see if we can find anything.” Officer Duffy ran the letter down to diagnostics and then took me to a room for questioning.
“Do you have any cameras? Have you asked your neighbors if they saw anything suspicious?” he asked.
“No to both, but I will ask my neighbors right when I get home.”
“Sounds good. Now, walk me through your day.”
“Well I woke up around 7 and ate breakfast. Then I basically got myself ready for the funeral.” As I spoke this, I suddenly realized that a chunk of my memory from the morning had completely left my mind. I remember getting into the car to leave, but before that I have no idea what I was doing. Could I have seen the culprit and not even realized it? I told Officer Duffy this.
“Interesting…and you say you got this amnesia after the car accident?”
“Yes,” I nodded.
“Well, for one thing, I recommend you go see a doctor about that. Anyways, the fingerprint test should be in by now, let me go grab it.”
He returned in minutes with a confused look on his face. “The writer must’ve used gloves while they wrote it. The only fingerprint that showed up was yours,” Duffy said with a frown. “Sorry Cynthia, false leads are always devastating.” The news wasdisappointingg to me, and I wondered what I would do next to get to the bottom of this.
Duffy walked me out of the station and told me to call him if anything new developed. I headed home, entering my front door more confused and upset than when I left. Whoever wrote the letter was smart and cunning, and somehow they knew about the night of the crash. I sat at my kitchen table, which was full of clutter. On the table lay a mess of papers, bills, and magazines that swallowed the table whole. Feeling my stomach grumble, I headed to the refrigerator to grab a snack. Right before I opened the door, I felt a piercing needle stab my brain. I had felt this before. I lowered myself to the ground and braced myself for the migraine episode that was about to hit me. My vision filled with blurry black and white spots, and my ears began to ring. All I could do was lower my face into my hands and wait it out. My mind took me back to the night of the crash.
“It’s all your fault!” I heard my mother say. “You murdered me!”
“No mom, I could never hurt you,” I sobbed. But she didn’t hear me.
“Your whole life, you’ve dragged me down. Nothing was ever enough for you, you selfish little brat.”
“Mom, I’m sorry. Please, just, I’m sorry--”
“And now this is your fault too. Why would you do this to me?” My mother cried. A loud boom filled my head, causing me to scream out loud. Suddenly, I was back in my kitchen. My fingers were threaded through my hair and tears gushed down my cheeks. The flashbacks came every couple days. I find myself wondering if they’re real, or just false recollections that my mind concocts. Carefully, I lifted myself up off the cool kitchen tiles. My limbs were weak like jello and my whole body shook as I stood up. Through my nose, I inhaled a large breath, and slowly let it out. I looked up, and another yellow letter met my eyes. My heart dropped. Had that been there before? Or did someone come into the house while I was unconscious? I carefully retrieved the letter.
“To Cynthia,” it read again. I meticulously broke the seal, scared to see the new message. “Let me paint you a picture with my best set of paintbrushes. It’s dark. It’s rainy. And you are leaving to pick your mother up from the local bar. She’s drunk. Again. And the bartender called you to take her home. You were on a date with a guy you really liked, but after this you know you won’t ever see him again. You make up an excuse and leave dinner. You drive down the lifeless backroads of this godforsaken town until you find her passed out on the curb of the bar. As you carry her into the car, she starts yelling. Yelling like she always does when she gets like this. She wants you to take her back. You deny. She then spouts out a long list of insults. You’re ugly. You’re stupid. You’re good for nothing. And then, all of a sudden, the car slams into a tree. How did that happen exactly? You are a safe driver with a spotless insurance record. And it just crashed? Interesting, to say the least. I am not afraid to repeat what your mother always thought. You wreck things. It’s in your nature. Think about that, let it seep into your minimal brain cells. You. Are. The. Problem.”
Unsure of what to do, I reached for the glass bottle of whisky on the counter. I tried not to be like my mom, but I seemed to have inherited her alcoholism. Her addiction now seems like one of the only things that she and I had in common. Without pouring a glass, I began to chug directly through the narrow neck of the bottle. As the auburn liquor burned down my throat, I felt my mind ease, but nonetheless thoughts continued to race through my mind. Who could’ve written the letter? Were they telling the truth? How did they know these things? It was like they were actually there. I decided to pull out the business card Duffy gave me and reached for my phone. The number pad beeped as I typed his number in, and the line rang.
“This is Duffy, who I am speaking with?” A voice answered.
“It’s me,” I started, but realized that I should’ve been more specific. We’re not at the “me” stage yet. “Sorry. It’s Cynthia, the ugly girl from the station,” I cringed at my joke, but at least it wasn’t as bad as his. I decided to cut myself some slack. After all, it’s been awhile since I’d flirted. “Listen, I got another letter. Could I come back to the station?”
“Yeah sure, swing by,” he replied. I’ve driven with alcohol in my system before, and nothing bad has ever happened. I hope to keep the streak alive. When I got there, I stumbled into Duffy’s office and pulled out the letter. Without a greeting, I handed it to him.
“Woah. You reek of whiskey. Good to know that’s your drink of choice,” he winked. He began to read the letter, carefully scanning every inch of the page. After he finished it, his piercing ocean eyes met mine. “Look, before I say anything else, I’m sorry to learn your mom treated you that way. My dad left us before I could even walk. I get what it’s like to not have a real parent-figure around.”
“It’s fine. Sorry about your dad.” I was so mad at myself that I could not articulate my real feelings towards this simple statement he made to me. What I really wanted to say was that it was so refreshing to feel genuinely seen by someone after a day of half-hearted comments like “I’m sorry” and “You’re so strong.” Duffy went through it too, so I knew he understood the pain that I felt.
“Anyways, make a list of the people who knew about the abuse. Obviously, this person has to be pretty close to you.”
“Yeah, okay. The only people who really knew were my aunt, my neighbor, and my ex-best friend.” Before I could talk myself out of it, I added, “Could you join me for dinner tonight? To talk over the suspects?” My heart beated out of my chest, and the seconds turned to hours as I waited for his answer.
“I would love to,” he smiled. “Let me just grab my coat and I’ll meet you by your car.” I walked out with a grin stretched across my face. Even if this was the scariest thing to ever happen to me, at least I met Duffy through it all.
We drove back to my place, and we talked and talked about normal things, like our favorite movies and the best sandwich we had ever eaten. It was nice after having so many days of abnormal conversation. Finally, after he had washed the dishes of the fantastic spaghetti he had cheffed up for me, we began talking about what we had come together to do.
“So, I know it is tough to talk about, but could you give me a bit more insight on your relationship with your mom?” he asked.
“Yeah, yeah. It was really complex, to say the least. When my Dad was around, she was perfect. The most loving Mom I could ask for. But after he left, she turned to drinking to cope. On the rare occasions she was sober, she was still like my old Mom, but all the other times it was horrible. Bourbon. That was her favorite. And it turned her into a monster. She blamed me for my Dad walking out. She would throw every insult at me, completely projecting all of her issues onto me.”
“Wow I know nothing I say can heal the wounds she inflicted upon you, but I am so sorry, Cynthia. That is just absolutely awful.” He put his hand on my cheek and his warm touch instantly comforted me. “Anyone else on the list you made?”
“Now, my best friend Anna, well ex-best friend, knew about it all. I never told her, but one night she was at my house when my mom stumbled home, drunk out of her mind. And she heard the thick of it. From that point on, she hated my mom. She wanted me to run away and come live with her family. But I couldn’t do that. Even through all the horrible things my Mom said to me, I remembered when she was good more than anything else. When I refused, Anna got frustrated and fed up with me. Eventually, she decided she couldn’t keep seeing me do this to myself. She deserted me.
“My mom’s drinking buddy was Joane, the next door neighbor. She was around for a few screaming matches. She was the worst. She would sit and just laugh at my mom’s insults. She thought it was the funniest thing in the world to see my Mom tear me to shreds. God I hated her. She never had any kids and that sure is a good thing, because they would probably be worse off than I am.
“My Aunt was the only other person who knew about the abuse. She was my dad’s sister, who helped as much as she could to try and make up for my lousy excuse of a father. She never actually saw it happen, but she put the pieces together pretty soon after my mom started to drink. She tried to get custody of me, but there was no use. The state shut her down fast. Eventually, she moved away to Seattle, or something. I never heard much from her after that. Well, until I saw her at the funeral. She always wanted to get out of this godforsaken town. When she saw the opportunity, she took it and left all traces of her old life behind, including me. Wow. that was a lot to pile on you, sorry,” I tried to apologize. My eyes began to swell with tears.
“No, no, no. Do not be sorry. I am sorry you were all alone in this all these years. Every single person failed you. Now based on what you said, I think we should investigate…”
DUFFY PERSPECTIVE
Godforsaken, I thought. I had heard that before. As I was about to voice my thoughts (the neighbor seemed like a promising suspect to me), there was a complete shift in Cynthia.
“Duffy,” Cynthia started to cry as she put her hand on her head. “Migraine. I can feel one coming” Unsure of what to do, I stood up to get her a glass of water. Suddenly, a piercing scream filled the silence. The glass fell out of my hand, and it shattered all over the floor. Cynthia’s screams were like none that I had ever heard before. I glanced around the room in hopes of finding a broom to clean up my mess, but there wasn’t one in sight. I looked back over at Cynthia, and she appeared zoned out.
“Cynthia? Are you alright?” I asked, but her blank expression lingered. Even in this state, she is one of prettiest girls I had ever seen. She had a fresh, effortless look not like one I had ever seen before. She wasn’t your typical Vogue supermodel, but rather one of those girls you see at the airport and fall in love with. In a blink of an eye, her face dropped, her eyes widened, her mouth formed the most horrifying snake smile I had ever seen. In a high pitched voice, she screeched, “I did what I did because I had to do what I did.”
“What?” I took her arms and tried to calm her down. “Cynthia! It’s me. What did you do?”
“I hate you mom, you never believed in me. I had no choice,” she screamed. Her words had me at a loss.
“Cynthia? What’s happening?” I asked. Cynthia stood up from the ground and made her way to a desk in another room. Then, something unimaginable happened. She grabbed a piece of yellow paper and shoved it into her light blue typewriter she took out from one of the drawers.
“It’s all your fault mom, none of this was me,” she continued, as she began to clack away on the keyboard. “I had to do it mom. You hurt me too much, and I had to get you back.” She typed for a couple seconds longer, then ripped the page out of the typewriter. Standing up to grab an envelope and a red stamp, she stuffed the page inside and sealed it off. It all started to piece together in my mind, and I realized what had been happening this whole time. She taped the letter up on the wall, and I nervously ran my fingers through my thick beard. In the past 20 minutes, I felt like I had aged 20 years. Had she murdered her mother on purpose? I thought to myself. I began to saunter towards the door. Cynthia remained by her desk, hyperfocused on the letter. As I tried to sneak away, she started to scream again.
“Mom, I won’t let you get away. You need to pay for all that you did to me,” she yelled. I began to sprint for the door, and she began to run after me. I stumbled down the stairs, attempting to make an escape. She barreled after me, continuing the screaming. I finally made it outside and thought I was safe, but she came from behind and swung a log at the back of my head. I screamed in agony.
I regained consciousness in a car that felt like it was moving at 200 mph.
“Never again, Mom. Never again,” Cynthia kept muttering to herself. I felt paralyzed with fear as I saw a furious look in her eyes. She was driving with a mission. And I had a feeling it wasn’t going to end well for me.
CYNTHIA PERSPECTIVE:
I awoke from my migraine episode with a faint, muffled, screaming noise in my ear and rain pouring down. As my vision slowly came back, I glanced around my surroundings. Leather, gearshift, steering wheel -- I realized that I was in a car. I was driving the car, for that matter. My fingers, manicured for the funeral, were wrapped around the wheel. Not fully conscious yet, I looked to my right and saw a blur of Duffy.
“Cynthia, for the love of god, please stop,” he shouted, though I could barely hear him.
“What?” I replied groggily. I could barely hear myself speak, and it felt like everything was moving in slow motion.
“I’m going to die today,” Duffy cried. He ran his fingers through his hair, and I noticed that tears were falling from his eyes.
“What?” I repeated. “Why are you going to die? And why are we in a car? Where are we going?” Looking in front of me, I noticed a dropping-off point. I saw the pink peonies on the ground, and I recognized them as ones that I had visited with my mother in my childhood. Emerald green bushes, rusty old bench, and overgrown tree roots led me to realize exactly where I was. “Brookmoore’s cliff,” I said out loud. “Brookemore’s cliff!” I repeated, shouting in agony. With that realization, I became hyper aware of what I was doing. Duffy rattled the car door spastically, his rough hands shaking as he attempted to escape the car. Rain poured down on the windshield, creating a dark environment. Just as I reached for the brake pedal, it was too late. The car had flown off the cliff.
“No!” Duffy yelped.
I braced myself for death. “I’m so sorry,” I whispered to myself. And I meant it. Sorry to Duffy, for ending his life. Sorry to my mother, for taking her soul. Sorry to Anna, for ending our friendship. Sorry to everyone whose lives I’d stomped over, carelessly and selfishly leaving them in the dust. Sorry to myself, for giving up. And for a moment, it almost felt as if we were flying. The night of my mother’s death came back to me. The lead up. How I purposefully steered the car into a great oak, killing my mother. How I got here. I must’ve mistaken Duffy for my mother, and in an attempt to kill her, I’ve killed him. The letters. I should’ve known by the yellow stationary and red stamps that it was me who had been writing them to myself. I started to cry thinking about all the wrong I had done in my life, but I also felt something else. Suspended in midair, in that instant, I finally felt free. The rain began to clear, and the sun emerged. Embracing the ray of sun shining on my face, I smiled as the car crashed into the water and my world went dark.
