If this letter has made its way into your hands then Iâve been killed I am no longer around.
My name, my real name is... [ The letters to the words are incomprehensible, whether or not it was on purpose is unclear ]. I was born in Italy on the 19th of March, 1927. My sister was born3 years later. When I was 8, there was a devastating fire at my home-- I lost everything my entire family in the blaze and spent the rest of my childhood on the streets. I was in the war, as you could have probably guessed. I donât really remember which side I fought for anymore, nor do I care. I think I was 16 when I enlisted. It isnât worth going into detail of what I did during that time-- I was only a teenager with nothing left to lose and everything to give. I became a mercenary when the war ended. I was 18. Between that and the labour work I started doing when I was 12, I suppose I had managed to make a living. A year later, my time as a hireling went sour as I was framed for a murder that I had no part in and I was sentenced to death. To be killed on my 20th birthday. I only escaped the death sentence after the death penalty was scrapped in Italy. I was released in 1950 after being proved innocent. The man actually responsible confessed-- can you believe it?
As you can imagine, the only job left out there for me was mercenary work-- nobody would hire a man with a criminal record like me. I did what I did for nearly 20 years of my life, getting better as I went, getting more brutal and efficient. I am not proud of what Iâve done over the years due to desperation and hunger. I was 40 when I saw the job application for Mann Co. And, as you say, âthe rest was historyâ. Â Â I donât know why Iâm telling you all of this. I suppose itâs because I wish for someone out there to know exactly who I am what Iâve been through over the past 44 years. There is nobody else in the world but you that I would rather have know. Not that it matters now.
I miss you. I miss you a lot. I think about you a lot. And about how we ended things. I suppose, that will be my biggest regret. I wasnât enough to keep you by my side, but I will still treasure what we had. From the day I finish writing this letter until the day I die.
- From, Spy - Sincerely, Blu - Love, Enzo - Vito
I love you, Cecil. I love you, I love you, I love--
[ The bottom of the letter is unintelligible as it seems that the writer began to cry across the pages, smearing the ink. ] â
The letter comes unmarked with Lucyâs, one day. Theyâd fought months ago and he isnât angry anymore-- had sent something back stating as such. That, and how he was going to stay away now for her sake. Perhaps in as many words as he could manage, but what for once did not feel like enough. Despite this, sheâd always been stubborn.Â
Itâs what he reads first, because though the extra envelope caused mild alarm-- no one was supposed to know about that PO box other than his sister-- curiosities could wait. It goes much about how it has, with every other letter. By the time he puts down her words for the other letter, his heart is already full.
The long, half scribbled out mess is greeted with a flicker of irritation. Heâd always been slow at reading, and asking someone to decipher something so suspiciously addressed is out of the question. His annoyance only mounts as he makes his way painstakingly past crossed out but still-legible words, squinting the whole while.
The first bit made it clear it was him. Heâd disappeared a few weeks ago, and Cecil had been getting on. In reality, heâd been getting on long before that. There was the long festering vexation that had set in like rot, the kind heâd tried to ignore in favour of what had been good. Foolishness. Cecil had never changed, and in the end all the happiness was a lie. The manâs soft touches seemed like they happened to someone else, and he didnât miss them anymore.
He finds himself skimming, the more difficult and obscured words escaping comprehension. It was the history of a dead man heâd barely spoken to in weeks and weeks, of which the last dregs of interest for were being even further overwhelmed with distaste as he read on.
It makes him wonder, how heâd ever tolerated it. The names near the bottom of the page seem to insult him with their indecision, to the point where whichever one is true hardly mattered. Cecil would never know without investigative effort, and heâd been done putting any effort into Spy long before this.
Why tell him this at all, if it was acknowledged to be useless anyway? Why not even bother to keep it readable, if it was so important? In the end Cecil folds up the muddled words and love of someone he no longer cares to know, and stores it away in his van. Safe, for all it means anything. Perhaps it is only because of some sense of courtesy that he doesnât toss it.Â
He doesnât pick it up again, though through only one reading he didnât have full comprehension of the passage. It was enough. Above all else, heâs always been disgusted with those that chose irrationally in a fit of weakness.
