A Letter to the Author

Something therapeutic.

A Letter to the Author
Alira Cohen

Last night in a drunken daze you asked me, where do we go when it’s over, when there’s only darkness? As though I should have known. You looked at me with eyes that I’d seen before, so bloodshot and unknowing, and I couldn’t help but look away because they put an intense fear in me. Those were the eyes of my creator, my only friend, my tormentor. I know exactly why you asked me of all people. As far as you’re concerned, I live in between the end and the beginning, the real and the inky pit of the subconscious. Of course I should know. You forgot that I only know as much as you do, and this void I spend most of my time in offers no answers. Perhaps you didn’t want to remember. It angered me. Even in tender moments, I find that I am angry.
So for you, I answered: Downward.
Downward, Downward, Downward into the black abyss. Downward to the snake of your brain; to the jabbing, meaty molecules that compel you to continue using me. Downward. Downward. DOWNWARD. Though you were afraid, and I could see that written all over your face, you asked me what that meant. I told you that, well, I didn’t know. All I knew was that you’d be going to hell, for the sake of whatever kind of hell may or may not exist. And you laughed at me, and I laughed too, and you fell asleep. As you closed your eyes I felt myself being pulled away from your reality again, and I was in my own space. This place, this void. In here, I feel every second of gut-churning movement. I found some time to reflect.
I have a name. You named me Lee. Do you remember that? I have red hair and freckles. I’m an artist. An English major, now. My eyes are green. I’m weak. Like you. I’m human, a person, a very human being. Human, but only because you say so. It makes me wonder, could I have been a pig? fish? demon? With the stroke of a pen, or whatever you’re using these days, I could’ve been something far more horrifying. No, nothing to fear, just someone’s imaginary friend. Your go-to protagonist who lives in different moments on different pages facing different beasts, and stands with you in your world when you want me to. Am I as good as a reptile squirming at your feet, or will you lie to me and tell me that I’m somehow something more? It was kindergarten. You were a kindergartener when you created me. I was born a kindergartner, a friend who would match your age but not give you any trouble. And though the class and teacher couldn’t see me, I sat beside you on the carpet, and during recess I played hide and seek with you. I was there to pick you up every time they pushed you over.
Do you remember, in first grade (or was it second grade?), when you fell and broke your arm? I stood above you, looked down at your trembling form in the grass, and for the first time I noticed just how vulnerable you were. Just how small. And I analyzed the separation, the fact that you were flesh, and I was not. I think I went by a different name back then. I told you everything was going to be okay as the teacher came scrambling over. Instead of looking at her, you looked up at me. You cried, and cried, and cried. I held your hand. They put a pink cast on your arm in the hospital. You didn’t appreciate my joke about worms squirming inside of it, so I’m pretty sure that’s why you torture me now. These days, I wish I hadn’t made that joke. Not because of the things you insist on putting me through, but because of the cruelty that had dripped from my tongue into your young ears. It reminds me that my anger was always there, even when we were children. Who deserves to go Downward, to suffer for their supposed sins, me or you? I guess that begs the question, where do I end and you begin?
I remember when you started growing. You became pimple-faced and mean, so unsure of yourself that you decided to make it my problem. You held my hand, you told me it’d be fun. I would become a star for you, the lead actor in your seemingly never-ending play. It hurt at first, but after a year or so the pain became normal. Instead of being your friend, I joined the ranks of tortured characters who starred in horror stories. That truth remains even as I conjure this letter. You’re so frustrated, so easily abused, nothing gets finished. You throw most of my stories away. That doesn’t mean I forget them. As much as I complain, I understand that the passion that leaves your fingertips is what keeps me alive. That’s why I’m getting worried your energy will run thin. My suffering will have been for nothing. These days, a monster follows me. He’s a newer one, but there have been plenty of boogeymen before him. He’s the worst beast yet, and you say he’s been a nightmare of yours for a while. Only now are you bringing him to the surface to bother me as well. Because, well, I need an antagonist, and he was just perfect. Oh, he should’ve seen the scraps, the broken bodies of those who couldn’t make the cut. I wonder if you created him to remind you that you don’t have power over monsters. No one does.
You haven’t even named him yet, but he’s mine. I guess your last failed love really did do a number on you. Demons come in times of shame, of course, though I do feel for you, somewhere inside of me. I would hate the monster, but I think we’re the only ones who understand each other. After all, he’s just as real as I am. I understand now that his big, hulking, horse-headed form is my shadow, and I’m sort of listening when he tells me that we’ll never escape the half-reality we live in until the day you expire. Out of the corner of my eye, there is a blackness, a reaching shadow, but I don’t wish death on you like the monster does. When the two of you bicker and you sit on your bed, tears staining your eyeballs, it makes me chuckle. How he loves to remind you of your mortality. No, Downward doesn’t mean that. In fact, I smile for you every time your awkward voice somehow reaches one of your peers in this ever-stretching university. I smile for those slight victories, and for the opposite as well. The truth of the matter is, the twisting of their human smiles, the way you anticipate their judgments, will always tug at your guts more than me threatening to kill you ever could. You’re not the weeping child with a broken arm anymore. We’re twenty-something now, and nobody knows who you were. Do you remember when you were small and all the children laughed at you? Do you remember when one spit at you?
I think the monster understands. Quietly, that is; he’d never say it to your face. And I don’t blame him. He’s not thrilled that you put maggots in his skin. I guess you did it to make him scarier for me, for our plot. You’ve never liked maggots, have you? You projected that onto me. And I can feel it, a fear itching in the back of my mind. Naturally, it’s fitting that my demon should sport them shamelessly in his meatsuit body. But you told him that they were a symbol of life, of rebirth. No, it was the full grown flies buzzing around his long face that foretold a wicked fate. I know, though, that he is humbled to give life to something, to let them play in the moss that he wears on his back. Even though, of course, he “doesn’t believe in any of it.” It gives him purpose. And after every long, drunken rant, he goes to sleep while telling me that we’re both just you. That we are you, and you are us. This being so, give us somewhere to stay, pages that we can actually call our home. Or are you too afraid to do that? When was the last time you REALLY finished anything?
Of all of my stories, only a couple have survived. I see things that others cannot see. Feel things that only you have known. Like you, I scribble it all down. We are the same. What I and my monster beg is that you finish what you’ve started, tell our whole story. Pit me against him, so we can finally settle the score between the three of us and put it all to rest. If you ever were my friend, finish it. You can start with something shorter, an opening. Then finish it. Only then can I forgive you. Don’t let my semi-existence go to waste. When you die, I will, too.

Author's Note

This one’s pretty personal. Of course, that doesn’t make it immune to critique. Like always, comments and constructive criticisms are more than welcome, just please be sure to be respectful. Thank you and enjoy.