Dear Mister

by ApocalypseAmerican

A person writes letters to an unnamed friend. They ended up in the morgue, with nobody to claim. And for one, this is all they have to know them by. A series of letters showing their journey in the peak era of dirt and punk.

Dear _

1988

I keep playing it over and over again. Your curly brown hair full of stringy, little braids I put in there. And you attempting to do mine, filling it instead with a mop of greasy knots. I called them garlic knots, remember? And we laid in the poppies. Beautiful, wine colored, vinager-scented poppies. You threw up and I laughed. It was so fun to me, watching your skinny butt dance around the room as if in a ghostly seizure. You're so pale and sickly looking. I just realized that as I write. You're so pale. White. Like the germs hit your face and burrowed in the little cracks, growing, and while they grew, taking your energy with it. You look so tired, love. But now you're peroxide blonde and we don't talk. You talk to no one, really.

I remember the pretty blue splotches on your hand. You saw some grunge band and got hurt in a pit. The blue splotches were ugly bruises. You said they would go away. I didn't notice in ant bites in your Neptunian hands. You did see that band, Green something. I know that. I was there. But I left for a while to charm up a boy. And I returned and you were gone. You came back saying you felt sick.

We played in the poppies that day.

I don't remember much of that. I remember the joyous singing. And lying on the floor, moaning because whatever we'd just done felt good and I had no control over my body and neither did you. I could twitch a finger, no much else. Oh, SO sleepy too. We fell asleep to Green-something on the street and we woke up to doctors. REmember that? But we were okay, we were fine. We were two people in love with each other, and I was a bitch with acne. SO I was fine. Even if you weren't.