Not leaving: an act of trust and love, often deciphered by children.
Dear someone who is no longer here,
I'm sorry. That's not how you usually start love letters, but I feel obliged to apologize. Why, you ask? It's not my fault.
I don't know why I'm sorry. I've been apologizing ever since you have left. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.
I think I'm going crazy. What am I sorry for? I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.
I'm sorry my words were not big enough to carry the both of us. I'm sorry my words let you down. I'm sorry my words could not reach you. I'm sorry my words were too late. I'm sorry my words are too frail. I'm sorry my words couldn't save you.
Don't be mistaken, my words mean well – although I don't think they knew the best me was the one who had you.
How are you? Is what I should have asked first. I guess I can't bring myself to ask things that can't be answered because it hurts too much.
Have I told you how much it hurts? Of course not, because the pain exceeds words. The pain would bleed through this very page and eat the letters alive. The pain is unbearable; it drowns out the sun, it fights for air. It hunt's you down, it won't set you free until it's done with you.
But the thing with that kind of pain is it's the kind of pain you can fight. If you breathe a few times. If you blink more times.
But the thing about that kind of pain is it's bitter sweetness reminds me too awfully of you and I grasp and keep anything that brings me just that bit closer. Anything that will let me remember. Anything with you.
How could I let myself forget? How could I do that you? So, I want to say that the place I am right now is a torture I have created from my own insanity. Stuck between forgetting and remembering and trying to love and let go.
Because I can't forget. I don't want to forget. Sometimes, I leave the house and I don't know if I locked the door or not so I have to turn back. Then I think… what else have I forgotten that day? And it kills it me, it rips me apart. What if I forget the way your eyes looked in the sunlight or the way your voice sounds in the morning?
If I forget, then you disappear.
What if I wake up and live without remembering you existed at all?
What will I do if I can barely recall how your hair looked so much like lemons?
I think you share the belief that I'm good with words. Honestly, maybe I am, but I know for a fact they are not good enough for you. You are too good for them. You are too good for anyone. Which is why I have never sent any of these letters because they don't deserve you. You are too far – and too intangible. And no matter how good I string my words, they will never be able cover the distance between us.
I've been talking to people and they tell me the same thing – it gets better, it'll be okay.
And I wonder… what is their opinion of better? What do they think is okay? All I know is there is now. And the now doesn't have you; that's fact.
It's kind of funny because a week after the Bombings, I felt so numb that I thought, Ah, this is the one that dulls my senses. This is the one that kills me. This is where it will hurt the most. Honestly? It wasn't like that at all. In fact it still hurts.
It might even hurts more. You think, nothing will be as worst as this. But there is. Everyone loves to talk about the first shock. The main event. This is when everything falls apart. This is when you can't walk or eat or look into someone's eyes without crying. This is when the world looks out of focus and unclear and unfamiliar. This is when you swear the world can hear your heart aching over being left behind.
You know what's not talked about? The aftermaths. This is the hardest part. It's no longer acceptable to fall apart every time you have a conversation, and you can't run away anymore. You have to pretend that you're living with it, and it's all fine and your rib cage isn't breaking at all trying to breathe throughout the day. You tell yourself, this isn't real. I'm not here. This isn't happening. No one talks about the way your breathing stops when you pass the Amper River. No one likes to talk about your hands shaking and your body trembling over everyone who isn't there.
Why should it hurt? It should no longer hurt.
How long will it hurt?
So, I must let you go now. I think I have taken too long of your time. I'm sorry.
It's hard to do everything myself you know? Feeding the Jews isn't easy without you. Stealing apples isn't really the same. Having a race by yourself won't work if I'm the only one who wins.
And even then, I'm still the one who loses. No matter what. It's me. I'm the one who lucks out.
And so, I miss you. I love you.
The world is too silent without you around. I think the sun's actually been setting far earlier since it's realized you're gone. Or maybe I haven't been going to sleep as late.
Either way,
It's quite dark here.
I'll be leaving now.
Lots of love,
Liesel.
AN:
I've had this written for approx. 5 months now but couldn't bring myself to publish it because I felt something was out of balance; something wasn't here. And I think it's how I wrote Liesel. I kind of think I'm writing too much like myself and it's OOC. Being OOC is what I hate the most, so I will be constantly editing and deleting parts because I want this to be Liesel. Right now, I still don't think I've got it right but would love to hear from you guys because it's you who can share some light on what you think.
It would mean a lot.
I'd also love you lots if you read my other The Book Thief story.. also Rudy/Liesel (typical) I've gotten some very lovely feedback so far! Thanks.
Till next time.
Published: 30/4/2015 7:03pm.
Edited: 30/4/2015 11.03pm