Speedwagon woke up gasping for breath and gripping at the sheets of his bed. He lay there as his body quivered all over, eventually bringing an arm to his sweaty, tear-stained face.
In his past as a thief, he was able to deal with these bad dreams relatively well; he'd seen plenty of hell in reality as is that nightmares couldn't compare, and he had to maintain a strong appearance to give others the confidence they could trust him as their leader. It also helped that, when waking up from a nightmare, he was surrounded by the sleeping members of his gang and, comforted by their presences, could easily ease himself back to sleep.
But his gang had long since disbanded now, and Speedwagon had to wake up to no company but his own. Mr. Joestar's entrance into his life had made an impact as well—he was reminded all at once of the goodness that existed in this world, and it was so overwhelming he could hardly comprehend how he survived his past life on the streets. As life appeared more beautiful, so, too, did the bad things about it look more horrifying in vivid contrast; and with it, the nightmares that came barraged him in a way he'd never experienced before.
He sat up in bed, trying to gather his thoughts and bring himself back to reality—but reality itself was looking too grim to pay a welcome visit. Mr. Joestar was dead, and Speedwagon wasn't able to gain any sense of peace after his funeral without any trace of him there, his body now at the bottom of the ocean floor. He glanced at Mr. Zeppeli's hat sitting on top of his table and remembered the other friend he lost, too.
Speedwagon buried his face in his hands, wondering if he was possibly feeling regret for having ever joined up with Mr. Joestar, regaining all these senses that had once been dulled in his life of crime and were now giving him joy and agony. This was maddening, he absolutely had to see someone.
Miss Erina!
Speedwagon opened a drawer, brought out sheets of paper and began writing fervently on them. Miss Erina, how do you do? I know we haven't seen each other in a while. He paused, wondering how to approach the subject. He didn't want to suddenly drop the heap of his problems on to Erina's lap, when she was likely still recovering from her husband's death, in addition to the entire ordeal at sea that followed. Perhaps…he could begin with that.
This may seem rather untimely of me to say, but I've only now just realized you've been through quite a lot. I'm still rather shaken up by what's happened myself. I'd like to meet you again; perhaps we could discuss it—and other things too, of course. Please send me your response when you receive this letter.
Speedwagon paused again before finishing the letter.
Your Friend,
The Interfering Speedwagon