Char the Butcher

For my boy.

This is one of the Three Attic Whalestoe Institute letters, from House of Leaves by Mark Z. Danielewski.

Dearest dear Johnny,

Do not forget your father stopped me and took me to The Whalestoe.  You may remember.  You may not.  You were seven.  It was the last time I saw you before I saw you again too many years later only to lose sight of you again.

Oh my child,

my dear solitary boy,

who abuses his mother with his silence,

who mocks her with his insupportable absence,

-how can you ever understand the awful weight of living, so ridiculously riddled with so many lies of tranquility and bliss, at best half-covering but never actually easing the crushing weight of it all, merely guaranteeing a lifetime of the same, year after year after year after year after year after year, and all for what?

You were leaving as I

was leaving and so I

tried before that great

leaving to grant you

the greatest gift of all.

The purest gift of all.

The gift to end all gifts.

I kissed your cheeks and your head and after a while put my hands around your throat.  How red your face got then even as your tiny and oh so delicate hands stayed clamped around my wrists.  But you did not struggle the way I anticipated.  You probably understood what I was doing for you.  You were probably grateful.  Yes, you were grateful.

Eventually, though, your eyes became glassy and wandered away.  Your grip loosened and you wet yourself.  You did more than wet yourself.

I’ll never know how close you came to that fabled edge because your father suddenly arrived and roared recovered powerful enough in fact to halt the action of another love, break its hold, even knock me back and so free you from me, myself and my infinite wish.

You were a mess but aside from a few evil coughs and dirty little pants and some half-moon cuts on the back of your neck, you recovered quickly enough.

I did not.

I had long, ridiculous purple nails back then.  The first thing they did when I got here was tie me down and cut them off.

But it was love just the same Johnny.  Believe me.  For that, should I be ashamed?  For wanting to protect you from the pain of living?  From the pain of loving?

Always from loving.  Always for loving.

Always.

Perhaps my shame should really come from my failure.

Tears just the same.

P.