To You On The Other Side
March 21 2010
To: Francis Bonnefoy
From: Arthur Kirkland
Subject: to you
Uh, hi. I'm not even sure if this will work. But I need some way to
talk to you. I feel so bloody alone, and if I don't talk to you like
this, how am I supposed to feel close to you? Your number hasn't been
deactivated yet. I recite it sometimes, to make sure it's real. I hope
somehow, you get this. I hope there's cell phone service, where you are.
April 8 2010
To: Francis Bonnefoy
From: Arthur Kirkland
Subject: our day
I thought it was important to mention that it's our day today. And I'm
going to cry. When I'm by myself, of course. I'm going to drink till
I'm dizzy, till I can't think straight, till I imagine you there, just
out of my reach. Then I'm going to pass out and hope to god I dream of
you. I hope you're happy.
April 23 2010
To: Francis Bonnefoy
From: Arthur Kirkland
Subject: you suck
You're a bit of an asshole. Have you forgotten even this day? It's my
most important day, and you're not here. It's my birthday, and where
are you with my kiss. Where are you for my "happy birthday, petit
lapin" and no one can ever say that quite the way you do. Where are
you to make love to me for hours? I really hate you.
May 7 2010
To: Francis Bonnefoy
From: Arthur Kirkland
Subject: yourself
Russia insulted you today. And for once, I'm happy you weren't there
to hear it, because it would have made you cry. He called you a whore.
He said you've always deserved everything you got. And I nearly went
blind. I think I punched him, because my fist hurts like a bitch. But
I remember screaming, and they had to pull me off him. You're not a
whore. It was hard to remember that when you slept with and smiled at
everyone. But you're not a whore.
May 11 2010
To: Francis Bonnefoy
From: Arthur Kirkland
Subject: blossoms
I was walking down some park way or another in your Paris. And all the
trees were in bloom. All the petals were drifting down, and I thought
you would like to see it very much. I thought, no matter how many
years you've lived in this city of lights, you've always marveled at
it. I don't want to go back to London ...
June 2 2010
To: Francis Bonnefoy
From: Arthur Kirkland
Subject: hurt
I had a relapse yesterday. I thought you would like to know. I keep
seeing you where you're not. And I think you're a fucking bitch for
making me miss you so much. I hope you know that you fuck up
everything about me, and I hate you for it.
June 30 2010
To: Francis Bonnefoy
From: Arthur Kirkland
Subject: summer
I hate the heat. And I hate Paris. I hate missing you. I hate being
alone. I hate waking up without your kiss. I hate looking through your
cook books to find the recipes you starred and wrote "petit lapin's
favorite" on. I hate not listening to your voice. I hate not having
your hand in mine. I hate not seeing your gorgeous smile. I hate you.
And I hate myself.
July 14 2010
To: Francis Bonnefoy
From: Arthur Kirkland
Subject: another one
Happy fucking birthday, asshole. Why aren't you with me? Why aren't
you here to wrap me up in your arms. Why aren't you here to smile and
pull me close and whisper in my ear "where's my gift, petit lapin?"?
July 19 2010
To: Francis Bonnefoy
From: Arthur Kirkland
Subject: so you know
Your bed is very uncomfortable without you in it.
July 25 2010
To: Francis Bonnefoy
From: Arthur Kirkland
Subject: new
I got a new therapist. She's a pretty lady with soft brown eyes. I
talk about you all the time. I don't think she likes you much though.
She told me I need to stop writing to you, it's stunting my healing or
some shit. I laughed at her. She expects me to let go of you? How the
hell am I supposed to do that?
August 13 2010
To: Francis Bonnefoy
From: Arthur Kirkland
Subject: apartment
I sit in your living room sometimes, wishing you would come home. I
stare at the window, out at Paris filled with lights. I'm a little
afraid of your apartment. If I sit too still and quiet, I think you're
there. In the corner. Smiling as peacefully as ever. I don't like your
apartment at all, because it chic and empty. And you're not in it.
When you are, it's because I'm dreaming.
August 28 2010
To: Francis Bonnefoy
From: Arthur Kirkland
Subject: again
Another relapse. It hurt. Matthew called. He's worried about me, he
says, wants to know how I've been dealing after... The absolute
nothing. Nothing happened. You may not be in Paris. Or in your
apartment. Or in France. Or on this planet. But nothing happened
because I wouldn't let it. I wouldn't ever let anything happen to you.
September 15 2010
To: Francis Bonnefoy
From: Arthur Kirkland
Subject: her
She still doesn't like you, my therapist. Her name is Emily by the
way. And she tells me that our relationship is built on shaky
foundations. She told me that I hurt you too much. Told me that you
hurt me too much. She doesn't understand. No one does. That's what
we've always lived to do, hurt each other. I am nothing without you.
August 20 2010
To: Francis Bonnefoy
From: Arthur Kirkland
Subject: question
Emily asked me if I send you messages all of her meetings. "No" I said,
"why would I want to do that?" She ignored my question. She does that,
you know. "Why don't you," she asked me. It took me a while to come up
with an answer. "You'd make him cry." But that wasn't the answer she
wanted. That's okay, because it wasn't the truth. No one but me can
make you cry. Your skin is too tough for the rest of them.
September 5 2010
To: Francis Bonnefoy
From: Arthur Kirkland
Subject: to myself
I hate that I lie to myself. I hate that I lie to you. I hate that
you're not a part of me. I hate that you're not here. I hate that I'm
not almighty. I hate that I'm not god. I hate that you have scars from
other people. I hate that I haven't been able to protect you from
every goddamn thing that came your way. Not even myself.
September 17 2010
To: Francis Bonnefoy
From: Arthur Kirkland
Subject: the wall
I have a picture of us, from the second great war. China took it when
we weren't looking. You were sleeping on my shoulder, and I was
smoking my second last cigarette. We looked god awful then, crusted in
every kind of filth imaginable, sitting in a battle field. But I hung
it on the wall, because you looked beautiful.
September 26 2010
To: Francis Bonnefoy
From: Arthur Kirkland
Subject: proof
I showed Emily the picture. I think it was to prove to her that you're
real. Because I think she thinks you're just in my head. Isn't that
silly? That's why I'm writing to you. So that you don't disappear. Now
if only I had a way to show her the kiss marks you used to leave on my
neck.
October 1 2010
To: Francis Bonnefoy
From: Arthur Kirkland
Subject: tears
Matthew called again. He was crying on the phone, and kept bringing up
the nothing. When I told him I was okay, because I was still texting
you, he cried harder. I wish he would stop shoving the nothing down my
throat. Because it's nothing. Absolutely nothing. Nothing happened.
Even if I couldn't stop the bombings. And even if I couldn't stop
Germany taking you. And even if I couldn't stop your people tearing
you. Even if I couldn't stop a plane crash that you shouldn't have
been on... I could stop nothing. I could stop the absolute nothing.
October 10 2010
To: Francis Bonnefoy
From: Arthur Kirkland
Subject: remember
Do you remember the lullaby you used to sing to me? That was such a
long time ago, but I find myself calling up the tune. Do you remember
the clay pots you would give me? Do you remember the way I stood at
the door of your studio and watched you work the clay? Do you remember
the way I held your hand. Do you remember the way the seine glowed
when we sat side by side at it, after the first war? There's been a lot
of things between us to remember. It's hard to keep track.
November 8 2010
To: Francis Bonnefoy
From: Arthur Kirkland
Subject: relapse
I had another relapse. And I've been hurting worse than ever. Panic
attacks. They keep me awake with fear and gnaw my insides, because I
think I see you. Only I don't. And that makes it worse.
November 19 2010
To: Francis Bonnefoy
From: Arthur Kirkland
Subject: snowfall
The first snowfall, in your Paris. I almost saw the snowflakes land on
your eyelashes, on your cheeks, your nose. I almost heard you laugh
and say "look petit lapin, each one is different." almost felt your
heat as you pulled me close and almost smelt wine on your breath,
lilies on your skin. I don't want to explore your Paris. But I want to
stay in your apartment less.
November 26 2010
To: Francis Bonnefoy
From: Arthur Kirkland
Subject: said
Emily made me say it. "What happened on February 6th?" She asked.
"Nothing," I told her, "absolutely nothing." She got frustrated with
me. She doesn't understand. Nothing happened because I wouldn't let
it. "He died, Arthur!" She told me, and not in her gentle voice. "Francis
Bonnefoy died that day. Now say it." I wouldn't. I wouldn't say it
because it wasn't true. Except that she kept me there, sat in front if
the door and refused all her other appointments until I said it. And I
said it. I broke, and I said it. She gave me a sigh, smiled like she'd
done something good. Only, she had cracked me inside.
December 17 2010
To: Francis Bonnefoy
From: Arthur Kirkland
Subject: not
Nothing happened on February 6th. You did not get on a plane. You did
not crash. You did not call me an hour before to say "I love you,
petit lapin." you did not give me my favorite breathy laugh. You did
not email me a photo of you getting on the plane. Because there was no
plane. there was no crash, there's nothing. There's absolute nothing.
December 25 2010
To: Francis Bonnefoy
From: Arthur Kirkland
Subject: Noel
I got you a watch for Christmas. It's a Rolex, and I think you would
have liked it. You would smile when you opened the case, would have
coordinated your outfit for the new years party to match it. I got you
a watch, but I gave it to Alfred, because I know you can't have it.
January 2 2011
To: Francis Bonnefoy
From: Arthur Kirkland
Subject: year
Emily has corrupted me somewhere, on the inside. You. Aren't. Here. It
makes me feel black. Do they expect me to give you up? What am I
without you? Who am I, without you? I don't know anymore. I can't
answer that question. You aren't here. You aren't on this planet.
You're not alive. You died. You died.
January 15 2011
To: Francis Bonnefoy
From: Arthur Kirkland
Subject: distant
Do you remember the way you looked, that first night of the great war?
Do you know how much I had laughed at your wretched form? Seems long
ago, doesn't it?
January 30 2011
To: Francis Bonnefoy
From: Arthur Kirkland
Subject: that time
I had another relapse. I couldn't stop screaming. The anniversary is
coming up. The panic attacks are stronger. Some how, texting you is no
longer a comfort.
February 6 2011
To: Francis Bonnefoy
From: Arthur Kirkland
Subject: last.
This is my last text to you. Fitting, isn't it?
Matthew called in and had your number deactivated.
I wonder how I'm supposed to cope without you, without
even a scrap of you. Is it cold where you are? Do they have good food?
Am I expected sometime soon? Maybe I'll write you letters, address
them to heaven, and hope you get them.