Harishwaren Veerapen
Lower 6 T
A letter to my Beloved is a short story that I wrote about a writer who creates a character in his mind and wishes to portray her as someone who experiences pain and the will to give up. The writer experiences some sort of fictosexuality towards the character and ends up falling in love with her. A letter to my beloved narrates in a very fast and rough way the point of view of the writer and her beloved; the character of his story and how he eventually accepts to let go of the character for her own good.
A letter to my Beloved
And things were never the same again. The moment they rushed her to the hospital were the worst one for me. Though I was the one writing the story, I was simply scared inside, scared of losing that character that meant so much to me. Her only wish was to die; the things she lived, her experiences and all that ever happened to her were what caused this but deep down I knew that I was simply, madly in love with her. The simple thought of penning her death down in my book was impossible for me. Though I knew that I was writing a story that she as my protagonist, did not want to be written, for as long as I continue to write, she continues to live, and she simply was not willing to let me do so.
They were always rude to her; her parents. They yell at her and make her feel so worthless and very often I ask myself how she’s able to live while all of that is happening but then I remember the time she sat alone on her bathroom floor, crying and cursing her life. I remember visualising all the cuts on her wrist and thighs and the way they had cicatrized. Those thighs that were once vanilla smooth were now left with a bumpy sensation and her pretty wrist wore marks that looked like cuts on a beautiful canvas. That night she took pills for the first time and nearly overdosed.
“I think my creator doesn’t want me to die but unfortunately that’s not what I wish for. I just don’t understand how come He doesn’t realise that I’m really in pain and that by constantly not letting me die, He is just extending my sufferings. I often wonder how come no one actually realises that I’m not okay; that I’m suicidal. I mean just look at all my paintings, the canvas, the drawings, my antisocial behaviour, my supposing attention seeking behaviour and all the other crap are clear hints. I just cannot understand how come He cannot see those and take my life already.” She definitely wants me to stop writing her story. She doesn’t want to live but I just cannot stop writing about her. I love her and everything about her.
I was there one day, thinking of her. It was the day she came back home drunk. She had so much anger in her heart; so much rage. I recall how she broke everything in her room that night; her mirror, her nightlamp, her vases and smashed her canvas against the wall of her bedroom. I remember how she sat by her bathroom door, smoking and sipping on more alcohol, playing ‘Wish you were here’ on her guitar. It was a Pink Floyd song. She was obsessed with Pink Floyd. Music was that one thing that made her feel better. It was her happy place. It was not really a place, but it made her happy.
I often wonder if I made sure that music was always around her, would she have still been a suicidal person. The only moment she was happy was when music was around. There was that night that I will definitely cherish forever. I remember coming back home that day and sat by the balcony penning down my thoughts of her and continuing the story. That night, my imagination was at its peak and I wrote about her beauty. I recall adding how her smile was among one of the most beautiful, how her scent was one that I wish I could entrap in a bottle and smell forever, how her hair was silky and soft and how I could play with them if they were actually real.
“Why is my life so unfair. I just can’t anymore. The only thoughts on my mind right now is to drown myself in my music and get high. I reached a stage where I’m addicted. I cannot live without music or drugs. When I think about it, my life seems to be addicted to pain. There hasn’t been one happy day since such a long time. I didn’t even realise when I lost myself to drugs. I just remember one day waking up and my body needed more of it. I was already in pain and my period cramps made it even worse. I was once that little girl who held my father’s hand while strolling in our garden. I certainly became unrecognisable now; a monster. Thinking about it, it’s been such a long time since I got out of my room. I forgot what that garden in our backyard looked like. I miss the birds that used to sing there. I don’t hear them anymore. Life was no longer the same since the day mother died.”
I wrote about her again today. There was much evolution in the story of my protagonist. I was still in love with her. That character that existed in my mind and honestly, the way she existed in my mind was enough for me to feel happy. My mind was the only dimension that I actually really controlled. Unfortunately, I could not save her from becoming that person. That night, she was at her lowest and there was cocaine in her drawers. “I had already prepared the table and had the cocaine lined up perfectly. I wanted to sniff it so badly. I could not even wait to actually sniff them one by one. I just dived my nose right into the lines and sniffed as hard as I could. That sudden adrenaline rush was so good that I could not stop and had another one and one more until I eventually passed out on the floor.”
“I think I woke up the next morning. I could not really distinguish the things around. I felt drowsy and the moment I stood up, I lost my balance and nearly fell. I was still a little bit high. My father was right there in the living room. I could only hear music coming from his record player. I was sick of hearing the same song again. It reminded me so much of my mother. Dad was not really emotionally available ever since she left.”. My character was not really off that day, but she was not feeling okay either. I felt really sad to cause her to feel that way, but the story had to be told. The plot needed to be that way for pain to be felt. But the more she felt that pain, the less I felt for her. It became a difficult thing to explain but it was definitely something. It was not that I stopped loving her. I loved her more that I knew I did but that’s the strangest part of love. though she was only a character, a simple creation of my mind, I loved her.
“I don’t know why but I just don’t feel okay. I was completely hungover, but I was sensing a pain in my chest. It was extremely painful. I did feel pain, but I didn’t know what it was. It was just pain and that pain was painful. My throat suddenly started aching and I wanted to cough. Blood came out. I knew that something was not alright, but I knew that I could finally do it. I could finally take my life for I started getting the signs that my creator was no longer taking care of me. That night, I finally did it. I remember smashing my bottle against the wall and taking the sharpest part of it to draw lines on my wrist. With each and every line that I drew, I made sure that it was deeper and I knew that I had reached deep enough to hit the veins the moment I saw blood oozing out of the cuts. He let me end my suffering today. Finally, he made the ultimate sacrifice of letting go.”
I learned to let go of her that day. I came to the end of my book. There were no more pages left in my diary to continue writing it. She was already tired of life, I got tired of writing and you’re probably tired of reading about a suicidal character and a mad writer. The plot doesn’t change; some stories end and some people learn to let go. Honestly, it would have been extremely selfish of me to stop the way that she wants things to go. And just that way, I put my pen down and she dies not finding any word this time to actually keep her alive anymore. I learnt to let go. Accepting the fact that she was better without me was what helped most in this story of ours. Knowing that we could not have ever been together is what motivated me even more and just like that ends our story.
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