So this was an assignment in my english class, cuz we were reading Chronicle of a Death Foretold, and well because i did relatively good on it. I decided, what the hell i'll just put it up (: unfortunately though, if you havent read chronicle of a death foretold, it wont make any sense.
Angela Vicario: the missing moments of her letters.
It pains me to think of what might have been. To think that it has only dawned on me now is preposterous but true. The ungrateful child I had been to my poor mother, who taught me to be the most excellent of wives. Oh how ashamed she must have been as I deceived her. The past week wasted, wasted by my endless tears, sure to leave a mark on this face that brought all these burdens upon me. Nevertheless, they bear the mark of my realizations, ones that overwhelm me.
I write this in the letter, only to cross it out again. I cannot grasp what I intend to say, the words escape me in my moment of need. Thoughts flutter around in my head. I do not know where to start.
The day I met you...
No, it did not work. Yet as I wrote this, fleeting memories of that melancholy day and others after swirl around my head until only one memory comes to me clear as day. Rather unfortunate this memory is, as it seems to be filled, only with heart ache, pain and deceit. So few people had known about that event, those who did, had then proceeded to advise me regarding old wives tricks, which in the end I never followed through.
I dare not speak his name, afraid harm would befall him, instead I chose one of which I had no respect. It did not matter to me if he died in vain, Santiago Nasar meant nothing to me; which is why his name was shaped upon my lips and had escaped with no regrets nor second thoughts.
I decided to change my style, starting anew, brushing away all thoughts of any sentiment. It appears blunt, straightforward, even expected, as though had I been writing to a friend. Uncertainty allows my hand to pause fleetingly as though forbidding my mind to continue this letter. But all at once the words, which had been so scarce before, came flooding in; my own mind cannot make sense of them. Yet, not a single one do I write down, I cannot bear the truth.
But what truth? Or more importantly which truths can I not handle?
None of them, I cannot allow myself to let him know. Instead with a heavy heart,I write of that day a week before.
You were there, passing through, out into the open air. It was as if you had slipped through my fingers and disappeared from me all over again, but this time, this time I cared. This time it tore me apart. There were no interactions. You had not noticed me sitting by the bar with my mother. Even in that spare moment when my heart clenched it was for reasons unknown, I craved that attention, that same attention I had unwillingly received when given to me lavishly.
My heart tore, it tore and it has been in shreds since. This letter I write, will serve its purposes to remedy myself. But even now as I write, I do not mend, if anything I yearn even more.
I tell myself, this letter, this conventional missive shall receive a reply or any response. And this thought gives me strength to continue, continue in this dreadful and oblique manner.