Myra's Letter

A short piece on an assignment given for class. My scenario is that I had to pretend that Myra had written a letter for Ian before she died and I decided to annotate the events surrounding that.

In his cell, on his stained whiteboard bed dotted with stray hair and distant photographs, Ian fingered the delicate papering of the crisp brown envelope that was dropped rudely into his lap. He glanced up at the cell intruder.
     “Brady,” the prison guard on duty snorted. “I’ve some more hate mail for you.”
     “I told you to leave it on the floor,” Ian demanded, before his chest caved and he let out a raucous chain of coughs; his saliva speckled his trembling fist as he hunched over his knees.
    The guard chuckled in response. “Good riddance, I say,” he sneered, before stepping from the room and pulling the steel barred door closed behind him; Ian ignored the comment.
      “Damned paedophiles…” the guard continued under his breath before sliding the thick key into the lock. Staring at the gum-stained floor, Ian waited for the cautious sound of the metal spitting into place and the guard’s thick boots echoing their way down the corridor before returning his attention to the envelope. Against his thighs, he felt its tender weight: his own name on the front was jagged and rocky, as though the author had only just learned to write. And although the font was nearly indistinguishable, he knew the letter had come from Myra.
     Myra…it had been three days since her passing, and he did not feel a thing. On the day of her death up until now, he waited for sadness, anger or even anxiety to wake his hollow breath but it never did. Even after all of these years, he could still make out the too-familiar scent of her wildflower perfume from the surface of the paper. Bordering the bottom left corner of the envelope was a faint teacup ring; he ran his thumb along the outline of it. It reminded him of how they had drunk tea together after they’d killed Edwards Evans and cleaned the scene…
 

“I’ll make us a cuppa,” Myra said softly, tousling her dark eyes through Ian’s gaze. On her chin, there was a tiny vermillion smudge of Edward’s blood. How silly of him to assume Myra had lost her fire…it was right there; and he knew if she knew the blood was on her chin, she would flick out her forked tongue and groan with the taste. He passed her a subtle twitch of a grin, and she reciprocated with a flirtatious beam; as faint as a child’s cry be beneath the dirt of Saddleworth Moors. Myra cautiously switched her glance to David’s then disappeared quickly from the room.
      Ian noticed he was still pointing the red-cloaked axe towards David in case he tried to run or to call out to Myra’s grandmother, whose house he and Myra were staying in. David held right where he was, his white t-shirt a Dalmatianed murder tell-tale as his chin quivered with unsaid words.
   
      When Myra returned with the tea, they sat around the coffee table and sipped in silence: Ian in his favourite high-backed cushioned chair, Myra on a simple wooden chair with her leathered feet perched on the table’s corner; David sat hunched and stiff on the sofa.
    As they drank, Ian thought the tea tasted particularly wonderful that night; stabbing his taste buds with just the right amount of sugar and tealeaf oxidants. Myra sat quietly as though waiting for Ian’s instructions, her blonde-umbrella-ed eyes alert over the rim of her cup.
David, however, was in shock; he nursed only a cigarette held stiffly between his thumb and index finger while his English tea’s heat decomposed next to the ashtray. 
    “Well,” Ian smirked, leaning forward and extracting a brown leathered wallet from the pocket of Edward Evans’ pants. It was dripping with blood, and completely empty except for a driver’s license and a few stray receipts. “It looks like Edward here won’t solve your financial problems after all.”
    Myra let out an amused giggle, the rim of her teacup tinkling against her teeth.
     “I’d better be going...Maureen’s probably wondering what’s got me…” David choked, stubbing his f*g out with force before standing.




Three days… and he felt absolutely nothing.
    A smirk danced its way across his lips; what did Myra have to say to him after she had cut contact with him? She admitted to the two feeble charges laid against her shortly after her imprisonment, because she thought she would gain parole to lead to her release. Her words, not quite admitting and very hollow to him, echoed in his mind:
    “I feel awful for the death of Lesley and Edward.” Not “I feel awful for killing Lesley and Edward.” She let him take blame for the other three murders, whilst accepting the role of his accomplice instead.
     His grin evolved into a chuckle. Myra was just as guilty as he; he remembered the small rope she liked to carry and finger around her wrist while she was cruising Ashton Markets; the rope she used to gag and strangle Lesley Ann Downey, after making her pose naked in a prayer-like gesture before they photographed and raped her together.
    He turned the envelope over; there was a small, simple message:
“Ian: please read this… love Myra.”   
He tore it open and let out a sigh as he extracted the paper containing her trademark cursives:


“My dearest Neddy,

I fear my death is close. I’m still in hospital, my pneumonia is getting a lot worse; the doctors say I don’t really have a chance anymore. They don’t take pity on me either and I know I mustn’t make excuses, and I don’t blame them. But I have changed; if Maureen doesn’t believe me, you should at least-


    Again, Ian chortled; and his cell echoed with mirrored amusement. He carried on reading:


-know me well enough to do so. I’ve applied for parole… they’re going over the paperwork to see if I have at least a chance for that. If I die, I want it to be in the presence of my family. My mam wants nothing to do with me, but I wish she would care more. I’m awfully sorry I stopped contacting you, but you have to know it was for the best. If I do die, I want you to know I still love you. I’ve got your letters here, the poetry you sent me a long time ago. It’s beautiful.
Andrew says you’ve been difficult but I think you might have a chance. You never appealed before. Tell them where we buried Keith, Ian. Tell them, and maybe Winnie might pledge for your release as a thank you. I couldn’t tell her, but you must. The old tart has been sending me letter after letter, but I was afraid it would interfere with my parole application. If you do get released…do what makes your heart race.
I know what you love, as do you. You like them short and sweet, swallowing strings and whispering crumbled dirt; dolls at the market that cost only an arm and a leg. My boot and your boot have kissed soil together for years, but it will be yours alone that knead the grass seeds this time.

I love you always,

Hessie”




Slowly, Ian slid the letter back into the pocket, dropped it onto the floor and lowered himself onto his stony mattress. Against his lower back where his dirty t-shirt had glided up his skin, he felt a cooled sharpness. He reached behind himself and extracted one of the many photographs that decorated his sheets:
    It was the snapshot of Myra that Ian had taken, on one of their many rifle days out on the moors: Myra was lying in an almost-foetal position on top of a white sheet, her shooting
cap resting centimetres away from her head as she half-faced the camera in a playful smirk;
her blonde halo was tousled to an angelic scruff, her hand tucked into her chest.
    On the top left corner, there was a slightly dull crystal smudge of what he imagined must be his semen. He dropped it onto his side and rolled over, as the door to his cell gave a sharp clang.
      The guard had returned: a charcoal blob behind thick bars.
   “Right, Brady,” he growled. “Are you eating today, or are you going to be swallowing plastic again?”
   “I’ll eat,” Ian said, concealing his subtle twitch of a grin. It was as faint as a child’s cry be beneath the dirt of the Saddleworth moors. “It’s for the best.”   



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Reviews

[P.S.Chance]

you are a talented writer.

[Alpris]

Thank you! :)

[Michael G.]

You have written a lot of very good imagery in this piece. Well done.

[Alpris]

Thank you, Michael :)