Letters - R
I think it was Cid, of all people, who told me that sometimes it helps to write stuff out. Oh, he swore up and down (literally, actually) that he’d never actually do anything like that, but it helped Vincent, and maybe it’d help me. He said I needed to take a day, a lot of paper, and then write everything I had to say to everyone I needed to.
Aerith is first, and the easiest. I’m not sure why that is, since out of all of them she is the most likely to actually find out what I’ve written, but that’s beside the point. I used up a new pen on her, telling her how I felt I’d failed her, and that I’d never really loved her, not like that. I think it was because of Zack, and now that I’m clearing out my memories the love I feel is that of a protective younger brother, who can’t do much but damned if that stops him.
My mom is next, and that’s harder, shorter, and leaves me wondering exactly what I have to say to her, if anything.
Sephiroth, oddly enough, is next. I used two pens, a small forest, and my own tears. I’m sobbing by the time I’m done. I’d been planning to put these in envelopes, then burn them, or throw them into the Lifestream, whichever appeals to me more. Right now I’m thinking fire, but my nerves are frayed and fire comes with bad memories.
The window above the desk shows an inky darkness, and I wonder if my pens have spilled across the sky. I’ve been working all day, up with the dawn and not eating, drinking only a little. My nerves are shot, my mind, body, and soul burnt out and ready to give up. But I have one letter left.
I pull out another pen, and begin to write. The problem is, the pen is out of ink. So I try another, and another, and another. None of the pens work, so I grab the letter opener. There is a jar on the desk, that usually holds flowers, but it’s empty now, waiting for more. I slice my left wrist open and flex my hand a little, watching the blood pour out.
When the jar is half full, I wrap a bandana, probably Yuffie’s, around my wrist and look around. There are a few random chocobo feathers, reminders of the birds I’d raced, the ones I race still, and how much they’ve meant to me over the years. I select a black one, slice the tip into a point, and start writing again.
I can already tell I’ll need more blood.
I want to tell him everything, but I can’t remember what I want to say. So I start with a chocobo feather, and move from there.
Hours later, when the sun is shining high in the sky, the glass has been refilled I don’t know how many times, and the last pages are drying, I look at the small book I’ve made and look for an envelope. I find one for mom’s, and Aerith’s, and finally Sephiroth’s, but Zack’s is too big. I had to fold Sephiroth’s in half and use a tan envelope, but Zack’s won’t fold. It’ll curl, and that gives me an idea. I won’t curl much, but just enough that I can fit it into one of Fenrir’s old tailpipes. I tape more paper to either end and decide that I must send these, before I can sleep.
I walk to the church, unwilling to drive and bring all the attention to myself. The ground has become somewhat holy, a site of worship to many, and it’s hard to go unnoticed. So hard that I do turn around, grab my bike, go to the stables, and switch to a chocobo. There is a better, more private place for this.
The lake here almost immediately cleansed itself of whatever taints Kadaj put in it, the planet revolting against Jenova once again. It is into these calm waters that I will send my letters.
I drop them, one at a time, before wading to the shore and dropping at the feet of a calm Gold, who lies beside me and begins to quietly preen my hair as I drift to sleep, feeling worn to the bone.
“Ha ha! My letter is bigger than yours!” A dark haired man blows a raspberry at his silver companion. The man merely looks affronted.
“Zack…” A strangled, stricken voice whispers, “your letter…”
“Yeah, babe, what about it?” The man grins.
“You and Sephiroth can’t sense it, you aren’t Cetra, but I…oh gods…”
“What’s up, babe?” His smile falters a little, becoming slightly strained.
“Zack, your letter…” she pauses, gathers her strength, continues. “It was written in blood.”
A moment’s silence, before an almost broken whisper.
“Oh, Spike.”