A Short Story
July 19, 1992
Infantryman A. W. Bole:
I know that you won’t understand, but
I feel that I must tell you anyway. No, this wasn’t all a dream. It was all as
real as reality can be. And you decide what that is: reality; really. As long
as you’re lying to yourself you won’t know everything is a lie. Your
irrationality was your downfall the first time; you refused to believe your
lies. You refused to believe my lies. But this time is different. This time
you’ll be okay. You’ll be able to forge a new creation.
Sincerely,
Rifleman Antony Baw
The
first time I read this I did so very quickly. I did not understand. The second
time I tried to make sense of it all, but I couldn’t come to any sort of
conclusion. After my third run through of the letter, I decided to attribute
the words to past letters. I remember telling that jarhead bastard about my
wife’s death. I remember writing, “It all feels like a dream.” That must be
what he meant. But about my deciding what is real—what is reality—I don’t
understand. I know all of this is real. I’m not lying to myself, and I don’t
know why I would. Irrationality? What first time? What lies? And what is “this
time”?
It’s overcast today in London.
Typical. The rays of the noontime sun haven’t even come close to penetrating
those horrid clouds. It hasn’t rained; hasn’t rained in a while. Everything has
been rather dreary, and there is no sign of it letting up for at least a week.
Outside of my window I can see Grosvenor Square. Lacking in color, the trees
hardly present themselves with a green tint. The grass is plain and evenly cut.
There are a few benches, all of which are empty. One person, a businessman, is
walking toward the chancery; he walks out of sight, four stories beneath me. I
tire of gazing out of the window, but I cannot refrain from looking at the dismal
view. I’m reminded of a sort of apathy. I feel what I see. Before I return to
my desk, I see a raven fly to the ledge outside my window. It doesn’t see me.
Though there is no sunlight, I see a spark in its eye. Then it flies away, and
I sit to write my reply to Rifleman Baw.
Rifleman Antony Baw:
I’m not so sure I understand anything
you said in your last letter. Please explain in your next reply.
London is getting to me. All these
people and their accents. I don’t know if I’ll be able to leave here American.
Still wish the Army wouldn’t have given me a desk job. I feel like this is the
worst position they could put me in, and all because my wife died. I’m not
suicidal, for God’s sake, but I’m sure they could use my abilities in the field
instead of this forsaken building. I could use the escape of adrenaline. All
this place does is make me think of her more.
I wonder why you didn’t speak of your
loved one in your last. I’m curious to know more about her. She sounds
beautiful. My Lacy was quite beautiful herself. I know I sent you a picture,
but I wish you could have seen her in person. Speaking of which, I feel like we
should meet sometime. Perhaps when I’m stateside.
Sincerely,
Infantryman A. W. Bole
July 20, 1992
Infantryman A. W. Bole:
I
knew you wouldn’t understand. And if you’re lucky, you won’t have to. I’ll see
you today at noon.
Sincerely,
Rifleman Antony Baw
It’s
almost noon and I have yet to see Rifleman Baw. I wonder how it is that this
marine, who I’ve met only through the correspondence of letters, plans to see
me. I had no idea he was in London. I don’t even know what the man looks like;
I wouldn’t know it was him if I saw him. The only thing more curious is these
past two letters and their vague words. Truly, I feel like this man is just
screwing with me.
The sun broke my train of thought. I’m
walking through Grosvenor Square and the clouds have parted and rays of
sunlight are prevailing over the gloom. I can see an almost unfamiliar blue in
the sky and the trees are a bright green. The grass doesn’t seem plain anymore.
Everything is beautiful. A butterfly appears out of nowhere and lands on top of
the bench nearest me. Wind blows softly and with warmth. The insect is carried
away with it and flutters somewhat helplessly until it catches the wind and
glides onto a new destination.
I realize now that it is almost
1300. There has been no sign of Rifleman
Baw, and so I wish to make my reply. On the way to my office I pass a man—the
businessman from yesterday, who nods his head. I nod mine in return. As soon as
I sit at my desk I begin to write.
Rifleman Antony Baw:
You
continue to confuse me. I really thought we would meet today, and I wonder if
we still will. I’ve been waiting for quite some time to make your acquaintance.
I
hope to hear from you soon. In more of a sensible manner, I hope. The curiosity
is killing me. Until then, I really don’t know what to say.
Sincerely,
Infantryman A. W. Bole
July 21, 1992
Infantryman A. W. Bole:
This
is to be my last letter of correspondence with you. I apologize for so much
deceit. I do not desire forgiveness, but for you to forget. All of this has
been for your benefit, really. And I assure you, Bole, we have acquainted
ourselves with each other on more than one occasion. I’m hoping this meeting
will have been our last.
Sincerely,
Rifleman Antony Baw
I
must admit that I am still confused, but what has affected me more is that this
is his last letter to me. I’m tired of trying to understand. The loss of the
only friend I have is one of the worst things that could have happened. At this
moment… I miss Lacy more than anything.
Everything outside is gray again. Rain
is falling from those relentless clouds. The trees are almost black and the
grass is flooded with water. No businessman walks to or from the chancery. No
butterfly glides through a wind, which remains absent. My fifth story window is
tainted by the drops of rain as a bird flies to the ledge. Drops of water fall off
of the raven’s feathers in a seamless manner. The bird is staring at me. I walk
over to the window and open it. Once I’ve done this the bird flies away beyond
where I can see. Without thinking, I pull myself out onto the ledge. Fifty feet
doesn’t look so far down. But I’m not afraid of falling.
“I’m sorry, Lacy. I can’t do it
anymore. I have to move on.”
Arms outstretched, I jump to fly.
Rifleman Antony Baw:
I
have seen no better days than these. I feel so alive.
Thank you,
Infantryman A. W. Bole
by MFW III
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