Hey everyone! This is a new story of mine, and I really hope you enjoy it. Here are a few things you must know before you start reading:
This is told by Lucas Scott, as a story/narrative. He is telling a story that takes place in the past, although at some points he shares his thoughts of the present. His story is revolved around the letters Brooke wrote him the Summer she was in California. Even though this is a Brucas story, I'm almost positive many of you will enjoy it. It is a story of love. Disclaimer- I don't own One Tree Hill. Also, I used a small quote from the movie "The Notebook" in this selection of my story.
The Letters
It was many years ago, fifty-two to be exact. I was sitting in my computer chair, entranced by my own thoughts. My legs were twisting back and fourth methodically, as I sat transfixed by a mural of the river court painted upon my wall. I may have been staring at the picture of the place I loved most in the world, but all I could see were images of her. Her. The person I love most in the world. I can remember trying to resist my thoughts of her. She had betrayed me; I was hurt terribly. I tried to think of other things to erase her from my mind, but I just couldn't. She was like ink, I couldn't erase her. The thought crossed my mind once or twice that evening, the evening fifty-two years ago to this day, that my heart break over Brooke Davis was my karma for what I had previously done to her. I had betrayed her, just as she had betrayed me…the wheels kept on spinning. So there I sat, staring at a wall like it was of some great significance. I was still twisting my legs back and fourth, it was causing my chair to twirl about in circles. Eventually, I grew dizzy, so I stopped with the spinning. Instead, I decided to listen to the distant sounds of my clock "ticking" as my thoughts of her continued to consume me.
I saw her smile and her hair blowing beyond her as she ran into the awaiting ocean on a sunny day we shared at the beach. Tick. I saw the look of shock she gave me when I kissed her before she left for California that past Summer. Tick. I saw her anger, her defiant stance as she told me to go to hell in the hallway of school after I apologized for cheating on her. Tick. And then I saw her laying in bed with Chris Keller, a name that seems so very distant today, yet I can still remember it. The clock kept ticking, and I kept seeing.
You may wonder how I can recall such detailed events that happened fifty-two years ago. You could call me an old man, you could surely say that my days have been many. I'll be seventy years old in exactly 2 months, but these days some would call the big "7-0" young. It's been fifty-two years, fifty-two long years. But I still remember the night she came back to me. The night the letters brought us together.
The word "envy" had played across my tongue that evening, as the ticks of my clock continued to echo in the distance. I was an envious man the night I found my girl in the arms of another person. Truthfully, she was never really mine the Summer she left for California, nor was she mine in the months following her return. Regardless, seeing the one you love with another person results in heartbreak. It was around this time, this exact moment, when I was thinking about that four-lettered word (envy) , that a loud and desperate knock upon my door blocked out the "ticks" of my clock. I suppose I stood up from my chair, and walked to the door leading to the outside. I don't remember that part, but I do recall the utter black color that adorned my door. It had been red, but I couldn't be reminded of her. Of the girl behind the red door. So I painted it black. Depressing, I know, but I was a confused teen at the time. I reached out. I turned the knob, I opened my black door. And there, in the midst of the night, she stood at my doorstep, looking as sad as ever. I thought I was imagining her at first, that my daydreaming of her was just acting up once again. She was holding something in her hands, but I didn't bother to look. I was too concerned with staring at her face, taking in her angel-like beauty. She had bangs back then. They fell into her perfect hazel eyes, blocking her vision, almost like she was trying to hide. I still assumed I was only dreaming, but then she spoke. Her raspy voice awakened my mind, and I realized that it was truly her standing before me.
"There are 82 letters in here," she said, "and they're all addressed to you." Then she shoved whatever she was holding into my arms without giving me a moment's hesitation to register what she had said. I looked down at the object placed firmly in my hands, and there it was- the box of letters.
I guess by now an introduction is far over-due, but I'll do one for the sake of it. My name is Lucas Scott. If you live in Tree Hill, chances are you've heard of myself and my family. They say I'm just the brother of a retired Nba basketball player. They say I'm the name on the cover of the book that's sitting on their night-stand, the author of their favorite novel. To the world, I am Lucas Scott, a famous novelist. But to the few that truly know me, I fall under quiet a few labels.
A brother.
A son.
A father.
A grand- father.
An uncle.
A friend.
But one title of who I once was is gone from that list, vanished forever. The word "husband" used to be there. Instead, it's now replaced with something else.
A widower.
In my family, I'm referred to as "the writer", and that is what I plan to do. I'm going to write the story of the letters, and how they allowed my heart to find my true love. Today is the anniversary of the day the letters found their way into my hand, and today I will begin the tale. Stories like mine are hard to come by- stories of love. Some call love stories cheesy, others say they represent an emotion that isn't realistic in this world. I say my story, the story of the letters, can make you feel alive.
I don't fall asleep with the one I love wrapped in my arms each night, nor do I revel in the feeling of the heart's truest kiss. But I have loved another with all my heart and soul, and for me, this has always been enough. I'm an elderly man, with a box of letters to help me through my days. A man with four wonderful children, seven grandchildren, and friends that are always by my side. My hair is grayed, my skin has wrinkled. I've changed in a million ways since the year I was 18 years old. The year the letters helped me find the girl I was supposed to spend the rest of my life with. I do not mourn my loss of her, the loss that occurred just a few years ago, although it seems like so much longer. I was blessed to have her in my life, and the letters bring her back to me each day. All 82 of them.
To be continued...