Do you ever wonder if the people you love secretly resent you?
It’s a thought that’s bothered me to no end these past few years. Your family, your dearest friends, people you think you would die for, maybe even kill for. They never say it, maybe they even convince themselves that they don’t feel it, but you know. You always know. Suddenly every little selfish desire, every action you take is over analyzed to death in your mind, painting pictures of a not so selfless love.
These are the thoughts that have kept me up these past few years. Another sleepless night, another several hours spent wandering through the apartment trying to tire myself out. When frustration began gnawing at me, I pushed myself up and fumbled my way to the closet, hoping that a walk would calm me.
Moonlight spilled in to the room as I cracked open the door. I expected to be hit with the crisp night air, but instead, I was greeted by a journal laced with the stench of death and dirtied with day-old blood. It sat abandoned on the ground next to a short letter written on the back of a crumpled train ticket. A quick glance around was enough to know that whoever had left it there was already long gone.
I picked up the ticket to see my name messily scribbled on the front. I unfolded the paper to see familiar handwriting.
"To my…
I have no idea when I will make it out of the academy, if I will at all. If by some miracle I do, I pray you…safely. This journal is…left of me. Hide it, share it, do whatever you must but don't let them...they will destroy…and kill…all.
Your friend,
…Solomon"
Splatters of ink and blood smudged against the paper made it difficult to read. Solomon…the name certainly rings a bell. How many years has it been since we’ve last spoken? One too many I’m sure. The last memory I have of him is that of a gaunt young man, days away from turning 18, being carted off to prison. He went without a fight, but I could never forget the look in his eyes, not even if I wanted to. Was it defiance? Relief? Maybe even a little bit of resentment, but not towards the men hauling him into the van.
The journal at my feet looked more ominous than the forlorn memory of my old friend, but the urgency in his letter was hard to ignore. Perhaps it was out of pity or maybe more out of curiosity, but I found myself picking it up and taking it inside. The worn leather of its cover felt strange against my fingertips.
It wouldn't hurt to take a peek inside before I decide what to do with it right? Besides, a distraction is just what I need right now.
Before I even finished the thought the first page was already flipped open. The same messy handwriting littered the pages and many carelessly folded papers stuck out at odd angles.
Is this what kept him busy all this time?
So much so that he hadn't spared me a single letter until now?
Well then again, I guess he wouldn’t have been able to send me anything given where he was.
Still, an excitement I hadn’t felt since we were children, blossomed in my chest. Let’s see what my old friend has been up to…
ns 18.68.41.147da2
