'Dear Clive,
I'm currently writing to you as an assignment for my English class. I must admit I feel a bit frightened by penning this letter as it forces me to think about the future. Considering how trying it was to escape the chains of the past and how much I've recovered in this fortunate present, I'm not so sure I look forward to anything beyond. I'd rather stay here, both physically and mentally, where I can be certain it's safe. I must apologise. I don't mean to sound so pessimistic from the very start. Of course the future could be worse than back then, but it could also be better than right now. I can only speculate and though my thoughts sometimes favour the negative, I will not allow this letter to be nothing but whinging. After all, the march of time is inevitable. Not to mention there's a good bit of me that's eager to write to you. It's a brilliant idea, this, and I'm sincerely glad I've been given the opportunity. I can't believe I didn't think of it outside of school. Well, I suppose you'll want me to be getting to the interesting bit. First, I'll catch you up on myself and how I've been if you don't mind.
I'm nearing the end of Year 11 and at this point I stand about five foot six (you're a bit taller, right?) and I suspect I'm a little over fifty kilograms. I haven't had my weight checked in quite a while so that may not be accurate, but in any case, I'm skinny, of that you can be sure. Are you still skinny? Or perhaps you've become more strapping…? I'm dressed in my school uniform which you've probably not forgotten considering how many times you had to wear it, but just in case, it's the one with the black trousers, blazer, and the black-and-red tie. Honestly, it's rather dashing for a uniform. At least, that's what Rachel has told me. You remember her? Of course you do! Such a silly question. After all, she's been there for you from the start. You'd be dead if not for her, you know! Moving on. My hair, as always, is a mess. I can never seem to style it correctly as it can't decide whether to be straight or wavy. I suppose that's my genetics at work, though they aren't completely to blame. I've not had much time to focus on my appearance as school grows more demanding with tests and papers and projects. Even a cup of Earl Grey in the morning isn't enough to rouse my wits anymore…
I realise this makes school out to be unbearable. That's certainly not true. We're nearly done and over the past few years I've learnt quite a lot. This probably isn't what all my other classmates think or maybe they're just not willing to admit adults have actually managed to teach them something, but I feel more stable in who I am as a person. I'm sure I still have a lot to learn, but now I'm used to what was once unfamiliar and I'm less anxious, more in control. I've been answering questions during class without the fear of judgement and my grades are improving. The stronger blokes still pick on me from time to time, but I'm a quick learner as you know and I've found many mischievous, albeit harmless, ways to get back at them. There's no need to use force against a bully when slyly outdoing them is much safer and rather fun. I hope you're not too old to appreciate that time Mike shoved me in a locker and then nearly passed out upon seeing me in the classroom sat at a desk as if he'd only dreamt the incident. He still thinks I'm some sort of time traveller.
Everything is going well at home, though if I could change one thing, it would be that ruddy tutor… I imagine by now you're a master of etiquette. Or perhaps if you're as uninterested in it as I am, you've forgotten all about it. But rest assured, I'll never forget…mainly because that tutor won't allow it. She's constantly drilling lesson after lesson into my head each and every time I'm sat down to eat. Even if my meal is something as simple as toast she makes certain I have my back straight, napkin tucked in my collar, and I'm using the right utensil to butter the bread… It's a piece of toast! Tell me, am I rid of her soon? The moment I see the back of her, I'm devouring an entire roast with a salad fork. But I must digress. I'm getting peckish just writing this…
Talking of writing, I still write nearly every day, especially because I'm working on my suspense novel. I've just finished chapter ten, though the antagonist is not doing quite what I want him to… Interesting, isn't it? How the characters you create don't follow your script. I say interesting when I really mean frustrating… But the fun is in the challenge I suppose. Has writing gotten easier if you still do it? (And I sincerely hope you do). I know you understand my anticipation when I say I can't wait to publish. Have you fulfilled that goal?
When I'm not writing, I've asked with help in understanding woodwork. I figured I should have a bit more of a sweat-inducing hobby and construction intrigues me as something so brilliant can be made from simple planks of wood. (Also perhaps this hobby will help with this skinny stature…). I'm learning how to solder at the moment and it's rather addictive once you get the hang of it, though I'm still a bit hesitant as the heat and smoke involved seem to set off a feeling of fear from time to time.
Anyway, I think that's enough of my prattling. Let's talk about you now. Perhaps I'll ask a few simple questions to begin. Is your favourite colour still olive-green? Is your favourite tea still Earl Grey? Do you still tilt your head when you ponder? Thought I'd ask since I caught myself doing it just now. I didn't realise until Rachel pointed it out in maths the other day. She said it was cute. I don't agree so I wonder what makes her say that?
Talking of fear as I was above, what fears are you currently facing, Clive? As I grow older, I've realised I have a tendency to be afraid of losing loved ones. Are you frightened by this as well? I only ask because my adoptive mother is ill. But I'm sure she'll recover. After the fire and losing my family all those years ago, you and I both know I could barely go on at that moment, and I can never be thankful enough that the ones who adopted me were and still are such a loving family who gave me a second chance to live a happy life. Everything about them—their personalities, their warmth and kindness, their ability to mend what had once been so broken—aids me. I find I can intuit they love and trust me. And as I continue to recover day by day, I can reciprocate these affections as if the tragedy had never happened. I hope you still cherish your adoption. They've done so much for you.
But, even so, I feel I must admit there's a part of me that hates how much I've come to rely on my adoptive mother. Her appreciation for who I am and who I'm becoming, her motherly love as if we're blood…I don't know how to explain, but it hurts. Obviously she wouldn't be around forever so why depend on her?
*As for the tragedy, do you still miss Mum and Dad, Clive? I try not to think of it because the pain is still pretty fresh even after all this time. I want to recover completely, but why does it take so long? It's silly that even now when a fire alarm at school goes off I'm petrified. Why does something so natural still haunt me? Is it because of the disbelief? The terror? The unanswered questions that surround their deaths? What about the nightmares, Clive? Do they get better? Do the flames ever stop scorching the night? Do the screams die down? The scars, Clive. Do they still hurt? Does the panic still take you by surprise? Grip you by the neck? Force the air from your lungs in gasping hiccups? Does the emptiness drain your body of all warmth? Is it always this cold? Is it ever filled again? Tell me everything will be all right…
Apologies. As you can see, I've crossed out the above paragraph. It was unbecoming of me to ask about your fears so please pay that no mind. I get carried away as there are times such as just now where I still blame myself, still feel the void of realisation, the rage toward whoever committed that accident, the loneliness of yearning for Mum and Dad. Don't blame yourself. They wouldn't want you to. And it won't help you. Try to remember how far you've come, okay? I have faith in you. I think they're happy for you, but they'd be upset if they knew you were stuck in the past and let yourself become a slave to your emotions, so chin up! That goes for me as well.
Anyway, I'll end this letter here. I know the end of school will be a grand time. I'm planning on becoming a newspaper reporter to add to my writing experience. We'll see where that leads. I do hope everything is going well for you in whatever endeavours you've got going on. I look forward to you reading this. Take care.'
And with that, the letter was finished. As the recipient, Clive, read the last few lines, his grip tightened, the yellowed pages creasing under his shaking fingers. Tears began to well in his eyes, one slipping down his cheek and landing on the old paper. How far he had fallen… He turned his face away as if simply looking elsewhere would release him from this heartrending realty. But what was causing such emotion was not in the letter. Rather, it was all around him. He stood atop a hill of rubble that had once been a great city. Charred wood of houses rent asunder, shattered glass from devastated skyscrapers, broken and soiled personal belongings that would never again be cherished, bodies, blood and fire. All this littered the land as far as he could see. Above it all…his weapon of destruction.
Slave to my emotions… Clive repeated in his mind. He lifted his face to the dark, smoke-filled sky, his umber eyes lifeless. What an appropriate term for the burdening chains that had encased his heart over these daunting years. If only he had found this letter sooner he could have heeded his own advice. Instead, he had remained stuck in the past.
And because of this, for him as well as many others, the future did not exist.