I don't own WC.
Honey,
Sweetheart,
How trite do they sound?
Let's be just
Neal,
It's hardly likely to send you this letter. I shudder at the thought that someone's fingers, someone's glance will desecrate these pages and my thoughts will look like a lunatic's idle chatter…
I am trying to write but I can't. The pencil can't catch up with my thoughts and they float away as they have come…
The first letter I am writing to you and maybe the last one. The only answer to those 1100 (I have counted them) letters that you have written to me. You are a brilliant artist! No, I don't mean your doubtless talent… You revealed to me one new tonality of grey – blurred margin between the law and its offence. You showed me the world in a radically different way – a white canvas next to which tubules with all colors are laid and their mixture depends on me. Sometimes, pictures are beautiful, sometimes, ugly, but you taught me never to stop painting because the masterpiece deserving a place in the Louvre comes after dozens of awful works.
When we met, I was a child who wanted to be a woman, now I am a woman urging to be a child…
You thought me lots of things…
Once you said me to float on the wings of my dreams without fear. And… I floated! The sun burnt me, storms were exhausting but I didn't get tired of dreaming – dreaming with dash just like you…
Do you remember the French town where you thought me to ride a bike? We fell around a hundred times laughing uproariously. It was the first time you told me my little Kat, when you knelt to bandage my chafe knee. You looked like a father with his young daughter and it came to my mind what a luck will your children have?
Do you remember the romantic nights in the apartment? Cheap wine in a bottle of Bordeaux 82, pizza leftovers and plans of the future – endless tours round the Globe, countless galleries and museums… Then I realized that I don't like Paris, Lisbon or Prague I loved us going sightseeing round them…
And I broke everything turning our yearning into star dust. My damn pride couldn't put up with the travel to Copenhagen. Why? I didn't run away from you, but from myself. The proud reasonable Kate was jealous and indignant. I was afraid but flattered that you were looking for me. You got caught because of me but I visited you three years not because of guiltiness. I came to prison not for a visit but on a date. I looked forward the Saturdays and hurried toward the prison like a mistress – toward a love nest.
To the world you are Neal George Caffrey but for me- the boy with the ridiculous hat and perfect blue eyes. You are (if l should be accurate I have to write a lot of pages) a great man. You don't need to steal gold it is in your heart! I have always wondered how you manage to save so much love in a place – love to the life, art, wine and me.
When I was little, I dreamt to fall in love with a knight and I did. However, my knight's armor was made of the bonds he forged and his weapons were instruments for safe breaking…
You were millimeters away but I couldn't kiss you. A thin glass separated us. Now you are free but kilometers, hours and conditions divide us. What a comedienne is the fate, isn't it?
I am feeling lonely in a crowd. I am wandering not knowing the way- what I lost the way or myself? I don't know who I am- Kate Alexandra Moreau, Robert Moreau's daughter; the woman on the Wanted list or your little Kat?
It's summer but I am freezing. The body is growing numb slowly and sinisterly. The blue disappears from my eye and covers the sore fingers. The wound is bleeding. The blood reminds me of the poppy field which we got through years ago. I hope if I close my eyes I will be there. I am gonna die. Haven't l been dead since I left you? I'm dying… What a pity it is not in your hug
…
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