Prologue
* This takes place during WWII *
She opens the dictionary and writes down the first word that she sees.
Complicate
Meaning complex. Intricate.
Difficult to analyze, understand, or explain.
She doesn't know why she feels this way.
She doesn't know why she's doing this right now.
It doesn't feel right.
It doesn't make her feel any better.
She keeps writing.
Complicated. Things aren't the way I had thought they would be. I knew I was going to miss you. I knew I was going to be afraid for you. I knew I was going to wish that you hadn't left. But this is different; it's so much more. And I don't know how I'm going to tell you this. I want to say it the right way but I'm not even sure that there is a right way to say it.
She flips a couple pages and writes down the next word that catches her eye.
Difficult
Meaning hard to do, make, or carry out.
Hard to deal with, manage, or overcome.
She doesn't want to do this anymore.
A tear slips from her eye and falls to the paper.
She keeps writing.
Difficult. It wasn't easy to see you go. I wish I could have stopped you. I wish you were still here. I wish I had been enough to keep you here. It hurts to know that you could even contemplate the thought of leaving me.
She goes forward, almost reaching the end of the monstrous book before she finds another word.
Worse
Meaning to be of more inferior quality, value, or condition.
More unfavorable, difficult, unpleasant, or painful.
Bad, evil, or corrupt in a greater degree.
Worse. Knowing that there is a possibility of you coming back to me only makes it worse. I should have been enough to make you stay. You've been gone too long. It's not okay. It's not fair. It's not right. You're supposed to love me. You're supposed to make me happy. I told you not to leave, but you did it anyway. And I wish you were here so that you could change my mind but you're not. You're not here, Edward. You're never here.
More tears fall onto the paper, and she wipes at them with the sleeve of her shirt.
His shirt.
She wears his clothes every night now.
It smells like his cologne.
But that's just because she wears that now, too. Every night.
She finds another word.
Different
Meaning partly or totally unlike in nature, form, or quality.
Not the same.
Unusual.
Her hand begins to work faster than her brain; the words seeming to flow out of her.
Different. I don't know who I am without you here. I don't remember how to be normal. I can't figure it out on my own. I do things that don't make any sense. I try to trick myself into thinking that you're still here. I lift up the toilet seat for no reason and leave it that way. I throw my wet towels into the corner of the bathroom. I get toothpaste all over the sink. I burn the coffee. I switch to the sports station before I turn off the radio. That's not all, though. Yesterday I sat and talked with a homeless man about how great a speakeasy must have been. I don't even know what a speakeasy is, but from his vague argument I gather that it's not meant for women. Last week I spoke with a fifteen year old in a ration ticket line about the importance of having a victory garden. I do not have or plan on starting a victory garden; I kill every plant I touch, and accept it completely. That didn't stop me from saying that I am the proud owner of some ripening cherry tomatoes.
She thinks about laughing.
She almost does.
Then she remembers the purpose of this letter.
She flips through the pages of the dictionary again.
Victory
The overcoming of an enemy or antagonist.
Achievement of mastery or success in a struggle or endeavor against odds or difficulties.
The word should have been obvious.
Victory. You're fighting for victory. You're fighting for democracy. You're fighting for the less fortunate. And that's great for you, Edward, really. But did you ever think about the consequences of victory before you enlisted? All of the lives that are lost? The effects that killing others has on your brain? You can only kill so many people before you start going crazy, even if it's just the "bad guys". I know you, Edward. You have a special kind of sympathy. You feel things so strongly. You don't belong in war; you're too good of a person. You weren't made to fight. You were made to live.
Her shoulders slump.
Her nose runs.
She sniffles.
She flips the pages of the book until she finds another word.
Reality
Meaning a real event, entity, or state of affairs.
The quality or state of being real.
She scribbles the word out and starts the next sentence.
It isn't easy to read the news or listen to the radio; to hear the numbers. They used to just be numbers, Edward; but they're not just numbers anymore. They're people, and while I always knew that before, it's so much more real to me now. I think of you. I think of your parents. I think of your friends here, and the ones that you must have made there. I think of all the terrible things you've seen but won't tell me. I think of how scared you must get sometimes. I think of how brave and stupid and noble you are. And then I think about me. What am I supposed to do if something happens to you, Edward? There's never going to be another person for me. You're it. You're everything.
She needs to stop for a moment because she's shaking too much.
She stands and goes to her room to grab the comforter off of her bed.
Their bed.
She sits back down.
She doesn't know what else to say.
She flips through the pages of the book again, almost reaching the beginning before she finds another word to write.
Gone
Meaning lost; ruined.
Him.
Gone. You left me. You left me for your country. You're fighting. You're trying to help people. You're trying to make the world a better place. And maybe that's supposed to make it okay. But it doesn't. Because at the end of the day, you're just . . . gone.
She goes forward several pages before she writes down another word.
Hate
Meaning intense hostility and aversion usually deriving from fear, anger, or sense of injury.
Extreme dislike or antipathy.
Her brows furrow as she reads this word over and over.
Her back straightens.
Her cheeks redden.
She takes a deep breath.
She lets it out.
And she writes.
Hate. Sometimes I hate you. I hate you for making me fall in love with you. I hate you for being noble. I hate you for being stupid. I hate you for being brave. I hate you for leaving me. I hate you for promising to come back. I hate you for writing me nice letters. For telling me that you love me. For telling me that you miss me. For telling me that you'll be home soon. For telling me that when you come back, we're going to start a family. Have our happily ever after.
She breathes in deeply again.
Drops the pen to stretch her aching fingers.
She has indentations in her skin from holding it too tightly.
She considers ripping up the paper and throwing it away for a moment.
Forgetting it.
Destroying it.
Then she flips through the dictionary again.
She finds another word.
Lie
To make an untrue statement with intent to deceive.
To create a false or misleading impression.
It's definitely a possibility.
She'd seen it many times before.
Love is based on trust.
Trust is fragile.
Once it's broken, it's shattered.
She doesn't want to do that to him.
He deserves better.
She tells him so.
I thought about lying to you. I thought about telling you that I don't love you anymore. I thought about telling you that I've found someone else. I thought about telling you that you're not worth waiting for. But I don't want to lie to you. I don't want to make you feel the way that I do.
Her heart rate accelerates.
Sweat beads on her forehead despite the coolness of room.
She knows that it's getting close to the end.
She flips through the dictionary to find the next word.
Promise
A declaration that one will do or refrain from doing something specified.
Ground for expectation of success, improvement, or excellence.
Something that is promised.
She scribbles out this word, too, before she proceeds.
I promise to love you forever. I promise to honor you. I promise to be true to you. I promise to pray for you every night. But I can't promise to be yours when you have made it so very clear that you are not mine.
The tears are rushing freely now.
Her throat is tight.
Her chest constricts.
She finds her next word.
Sorry
Feeling sorrow, regret, or penitence.
Inspiring sorrow, pity, scorn, or ridicule.
Mournful.
The words flow easily.
I'm sorry, Edward. I'm sorry that things are so complicated. I'm sorry that it's so hard; that I'm not strong enough. I'm sorry that I'm not the person that I used to be. I'm sorry that I'm blaming you for it. I'm sorry I'm not a better person. I'm sorry that you chose a shot at victory over me. I'm sorry that this reality has brought me to this point. I'm sorry that you're gone, and that nothing will get better until you're back. I'm sorry that you're not here. I'm sorry that I need you so much. I'm sorry that I tried to hate you. I'm sorry for considering lying to you. I'm sorry that I'm breaking old promises. I'm sorry that I can't make certain ones. I'm sorry that I'm telling you all of this in a letter. I'm sorry that it's jumbled; that it doesn't make sense. But most of all . . . I'm sorry for what I'm about to say.
She closes the dictionary.
She already knows what comes next.
You need to stop sending me letters. I don't want them. You need to take off your wedding band, because I am taking mine off as soon as this letter sends. I don't want to be connected to you right now. I don't want to feel this way. I want you to be gone for a reason; a reason that makes sense. You've hurt me. You've hurt me so badly. You've taken away the one thing that I need most. You.
So until you can be the husband that I need you to be, this marriage is over.
Goodbye, Edward.
Sincerely,
Bella
She dates the letter: 27 June 1945
She folds it neatly and puts it in an envelope.
She writes down its destination.
She walks outside to put it in the mailbox.
When she comes back inside, she does all the things she told herself she would.
She takes off her wedding ring. Showers. Changes into her own clothes. Picks up the dirty laundry and washes it. She cleans the sink. She puts down the toilet seat. She gives her radio to her neighbor.
Then she goes to bed.
And the next day, the mailman picks up her letter to send it on its way to Private Edward Masen.
Never before had language been put to such cruel, yet efficient, use.
A/N: I may or may not continue this story, depending on your reaction, my time and my other projects.
But whether I do or don't continue this . . . It is my heart and soul. And I'm entrusting you with it.
~ Madison ~