Dear Meriwether

My dearest Meriwether,

I have come to the conclusion that the night terrors I experience serve only as an incentive for waking up. If there were a land of gumdrops and fluffy clouds all of the time, there would never be any reason to leave it.

I feel as though some of us need more incentive than others.

Outside my window - if observant - one would see a plain, country setting of countless fields, with workers toiling away in them, only natural time to tell them when to stop. The trees stand tall and gnarly in the yard before me, bountiful with fruits as well as pesky little bees. One might find this peace and isolation to be a blissful heaven. I have just come to call it home.

I sit on the second story of this place writing to you in the hopes that I might find peace within myself. Though I have found this goal far harder to obtain as days pass and leaves fall,I can at least say I have tried for it.

Right now, behind the white paneled door sealing in walls splashed with crimson roses, is a little man. I know not his name. I only see his face form time to time. He is a stout little figure with a button nose and beady little eyes sunken deep into his face. His ears are small and his face round, as if he were built from clay by a child. He stands by the door in his flamboyant coat, with his handkerchief in hand in a most upright position, seemingly staring at the painting before him. But, if one were to study him a bit more, one would realize that this man is staring at absolutely nothing.

He sees nothing, but feels everything.

He has not said a word to me since his arrival, but he does not have to. I can understand what he feels without even seeing him, almost as if we had interlocking roots feeding from the same water. We touch somewhere in the middle and we both know our purpose: to feed and live, and also to give life. I feel ignorant upon saying that, as I have no knowledge of my true purpose, but somedow, deep inside my heart, I feel like he does.

I called my servant, my dearest Beth, to my room with the request of a cup of tea. She brings it to me and I ask her to see if my companion outside the door would like some. She looks outside the door and sees not a thing. I tell her that he is plain as the day I see right here through my window and she again looks and still sees nothing. I tell her she is a very stupid girl and if I must get it myself I will, but not without consequence on her behalf. Her eyes grow large and she scurries off and appeases my request and sits it beside him as I have requested in case he might fancy a cup.
He is a very patient man, but we both seem to lack sympathy for the ignorant. He is most patient with me. I feel like a friend in his eyes which has brought me comfort. I wish only to please him and have except in recent times he seems to have grown impatient with me. I only wish I knew what upset him as I grow only more upset.

I have convinced myself I am with illness. I feel like the little man, or as I have so affectionately come to call him, Arthur, feels it to. There is a sickness inside of me. One that I feel so needs to be brought out of me by blade and thrown into the darkest depths of the chambers of hell instead of residing in my mind where it reeks its havoc in burning down the parts of me which still hold and stand tall.

It is like a dark shadow bestowed upon me by Lucifer himself. It is a possibility that it may have been an act of the devil, I have called upon the priest to discuss it, but he stood before me with the vein in his neck growing larger and the sweat running down his brow at a rapid pace crying that I was absolutely mad and a wretched heathen. He said that this was in my own weakness for inviting him in and to not come back to the church in the fear that I might spread my faults.

Beth says they speak of me in town. When she goes to the market to fetch what I ask for they ask of my status and if it’s difficult being in the presence of such a heathen in regularity. I have reduced myself to seclusion and turn to you old friend with the confession of my thoughts in hopes that there is still hope for what has become of my mind.

In the night they come for me sometimes, they come for what they have yet been so strong as to claim and wish to find themselves as the possessors. These dark shadows roam through my mind and empty the evil thoughts into the crevices that were already in doubt. What has become of me? I live not for happiness anymore. I live only to survive and see another tomorrow, one that is not even guaranteed in the slightest. I watch those around me succumb to similar evils and have prayed in my room for my own sake. Arthur has not much pity for me either.

I live in loneliness and sleep in terror. I find no peace in the night and nothing but silence in the day. The memories come back to me as cloudy as the English skies and I am just trying if not obsessing to put the pieces back together of what happened. What happened to me? Where am I? I care not where I am going at this point I only wish to know where I have been.

No matter what poor soul you bestow this knowledge upon and how often you do you lack the answers you have been so desperately searching for. Sometimes it’s perceived with anger; usually the only rebuttal is pity. Not just mere pity for my mind, but pity for my soul as if the essence of who I am caused this curse, but who am I really? A far better question is who am I and whose am I?

To god’s people this is my self inflicted welcoming of Beelzebub into my temple. I remain his though. In my room I am his and in my heart I remain in faith when my words speak not my true identity. I wish to one day control the little beast that has a hold of my tongue, but see larger things to worry about at the moment.
Why worry if you remain in faith? This is a question often asked by passerby and I answer with the same solemn expression upon my pale, thin face: God does not help those who do not help themselves. How can I lean upon that which has brought me to be something and not work to be something to myself? If you lean long enough surely you will grow tired and will soon fall upon the floor surely far too tired for a second go.
And my faith stays solid though my mind has become a puddle. Things that do become liquids tend to mix which has been my most unfortunate predicament. Those which once went there separate ways as they were intended have become one and only made matters worse. What I do have left I have thought of it as the treasure it truly is and not taken for granted as it once was.

Arthur watches this happen with impatience, I cannot tell if it impatience with me for not fighting harder or impatience with the process as to not cause me to succumb sooner. I cannot decide if even he is truly my friend as what was my first impression of the stout little fellow or death himself sitting at my door waiting for the inevitable. Until I have a solid conclusion I shall still offer him tea and the food same as I in hopes that he takes it as kindness or an offering with request of his mercy. Maybe if he sees that underneath all that is underneath what has made me human is kindness and maybe even a little virtue. I stand by my original perception of him as a friend and feels that he sees that which brings me comfort.

I write you in hopes that you know what has become of me. I hope that you see that I am troubled, but certainly not a mad wretch. I am not angelic nor am I demonic I stand in the middle as man with the mind infested by clouds and shadows overcast and they do not touch all. I hope you see me as fighting, not weak and succumbing to this, this thing that has given me my identity to others, but never to myself. As my oldest and dearest friend I hope you see that and forgive me for all the pains I may have caused you even if I do not remember causing your pain. I seek redemption from you and my god and those two alone. If man can forgive me, god shall three fold.

Yours most sincerely,

Edith Gray



~R