Tommy, Dearest,
Many things are going to happen in next few days. No matter what happens, there are things I want you- I need you- to know in order to understand why these events are about to transpire. Within the contents of this letter are going to be things you can't understand now, but that is okay. You only need to know them. Our origin, our reasons for being, our creator, our history, everything you need to know about our family. The world is afraid of us and will make many lies about us, but you must know the truths behind us. Tommy, we love you. Forgive us.
I'll start from the beginning- the real beginning.
The man sits at his workbench, a kitchen table strewn with papers, blue prints, various vials containing liquids in different shades of red. It's quiet but for the low snores of creatures. It's dark but for the first lights of dawn.
The man is alone and content to be so at this time. He strokes his beard, a long majestic tribute to his late lack of personal hygiene. He has not eaten in two days; his work is incomplete.
His house is incomplete, wanting a roof with all its shingles, wanting an attic with no bats. Even the room he is in, the dining room, is covered in dust and debris of a storm of forty years ago. He has just moved in, a new beginning for what he plans to be an end, a kind of aubade in itself.
He shifts through his plans, feeling as if there is something he is supposed to know but has yet to understand, to find the meaning behind these meanings. His brows come together, his eyes become slits, as if squinting at it will somehow make his writings make more sense. He sighs and sits back in his chair, the only complete one in the room. He puts his hands in his lap and looks around to the what is left of the house.
He does not know who owned the house last. He does know that it was abandoned after its demise. He knows people ignore it. He has no malicious intentions. He carefully considers the contents of the dining room, eyes unjudging, hands neatly folded in his lap. He is an old man. He is taking things slowly. The first object his eyes fall on is the painting besides the window directly in front of him. It portrays a woman who was lovely in her time, dressed simply in a summer dress with her hair pulled back. This woman was probably dead, but could've been a wonderful hostess when she was alive. She might have held many parties (the shape of her eyebrow, the curve of her smile told him this) in this very room and many people must've complimented her on the fine house she lived in. She would take these compliments with grace as is due a lady such as herself, and would take however many guests would tag along on a whirlwind tour of the house, describe both levels in detail and all 12 of the bedrooms and all 7 ½ bathrooms and the dining room and parlor and the living room and the study and as she did so, she might've been asked, "How can you afford such luxuries? Who are you hosting to need such space?" And she would smile and gently shake her head; a lady will never tell the secrets of her home. She would not tell them of the basement. This lady did not speak of the taboo her husband would perform in the lower levels of the house, would not use any sort of speech to gratify the smile of her husband during the shrieks of their things (their babies, her husband assured her, their children). No, she was proper. She would smile. She would serve the most delicious of cheeses and the most delicate of wines. She would laugh when necessary and would never need to raise her voice. She was the center of attention after all. She would never bear children, herself, but she wouldn't need to. She had all the love she needed.
But the man fabricates this story. He has no knowledge of the house's history. He will, however, hold this story in his mind, preferring it over whatever is true. He continues to let his eyes fall where they will, becomes less attached to the objects within the room. Most are ruined by wear, by lack of use, by water, by the elements. There might've been a small fire here once. A breeze comes from the window, or rather through the shards of what is left. Weeds are starting to grow along what is left of the window sill, creeping into the house from the small gap it created from not being closed completely. Human paraphernalia laid strewn about. Porcelain pieces, chair legs, canvas fabric of what might've been a masterpiece. Everything out of place. Everything incomplete. His work was incomplete.
His face lit up with a new spark. Yes, that was it. Everything was out of place. He bends down to his work and does not raise his head again for five hours. When he does raise his head, it contains a smile. He rises and fetches for himself his first meal in several days: an apple and a glass of water.
His work is not yet done, but all that is left is to put everything in it's place.