It had been innocent enough when you first started writing them. A friend had suggested you write letters to yourself, to try and work through and understand your own feelings. Only, writing to yourself had felt stupid.
With a dry smile, you had decided to write a letter as if you were writing to Dracula himself. The idea was amusing enough, and surprisingly, you were able to be genuine with your letter, though you still didn’t express too much of how you felt.
The next day, feeling a touch of childish whimsy, you took it with you on your walk, and put it in the mailbox in town. it had no address or return address, but you thought it amusing all the same. Until a reply showed up at your doorstep a few days later.
It unnerved you at first, that someone had not only replied, but somehow known where to reply too. They seemed to have taken great care to make it realistic too, the paper of both the envelope and letter itself, feeling expensive and thick, and the writing done in elegant cursive.
After a few days, you decided that the correspondence couldn’t hurt, and so you replied to the curious letter, explaining the reason for your first, and apologising. It took only two days for a reply to come, after you had mailed yours, the same way you had before. There was acceptance there, and a tentative offer for you to continue. And continue you did.
Before you knew it, you had been writing to your stranger for over a year. Your letters with the stranger (call me Vlad, my dear) had become more personal, the two of you sharing things that you hadn’t really been able to voice before. It was nice to pretend that Vlad was real, and genuine with his stories and emotions. They chased away some of the darkness in your mind, and made you feel like you belonged, like you weren’t so lonely and detached from the world.
Not all good things could last however. Your home life was only getting worse, and despite being an adult and having a job, you knew there was few options for you, if you left.
You started to lag in your responses with Vlad, your comments becoming darker and shorter. Eventually he questioned you about it, and you admitted that things were getting worse, and that your mind was taking you to increasingly dark and dangerous places. You honestly weren’t sure how much longer you could hold on like this.
By the time his next reply came, you didn’t have it in you to check. You knew it was all a lie, something funny and amusing to pass two peoples time, but it had felt like more than that for a long time, and your foolish heart apparently didn’t know the difference either. Your replies had become prompt with each other over time, never taking more than two days to send to the other, but your mind and heart were too clouded, and your motivation had died. A few weeks passed, and the letter sat unopened still, as did two more that had arrived.
You were in the midst of a loud shouting match, or rather being shouted at, when there was a knock at the door. They cursed at you and stomped over to it, going to see who it was, while you stared blankly at the wall, tucking all the emotions away. You flinched as your name was shouted, and hesitantly made your way to the front door, wondering who the hell would be looking for you of all people.
Standing there, an umbrella held overhead to block the rain, was an incredibly tall and broad shouldered man. His pale skin stood out starkly against his expensive black suit and long black hair. Pulling his sunglasses down off his face, you found your eyes locking with the dark hellfire seeming to burn within his own. His expression softened slightly from the cold intimidating look he had held, and he gave you a small smile.
romaincrisis
amandla
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