Chapter 2: The Civil War, or The War Between the States (1861-1865)
Arthur tried to think of everyone he knew and eliminate the people who it absolutely could not be. He ended up with absolutely no one left, so he gave up. Every single time he received one of the strange letters, he thought of Alfred, but he knew that Alfred would never, ever, in a million years send him anything even close to what he was receiving. He had promised to give up on Alfred many, many years ago, but the letters tore through his defenses like nothing else – easier, even, than a look into Alfred's calm blue eyes (for they were rarely calm).
Most of the letters were not sappy, though several of them were. Most of them were reflective, flavored with a significant amount of sadness, regret, and nostalgia. Since these were almost the exact emotions Arthur associated with Alfred, he automatically took each word with as much weight as if they had been signed "Alfred Jones," despite what he tried to tell himself. It was no longer with curiosity that he read the letters. He read the letters with a voracious need to see beyond the words, to see into the soul that had written them. So when Arthur read the letter dated April, 1861, he felt as though his heart was breaking.
(It was April of 1861. Alfred sat alone in his study, gazing out the window. He realized what he had been thinking for several days now: The pain was worse. The pressure in his head – that had been there for months, years even, if he thought about it. But the pain was more recent. It had started as an ache in his chest, somewhere deep, but it had slowly been turning into a hard line, dividing him in two. It had been last night when he had realized why he felt so strange; he was scared. He wanted to cry out for help, but couldn't. It wasn't pride that stopped him. He simply could not ask another country to fight with him, against himself.
He pulled a sheet of paper from the stack on his desk, and dipped the pen in the inkwell. He stared at the paper in silence, twisting the pen between his fingers. Arthur, he thought, and when he started writing, it came easily. Arthur,
I feel as if I am going insane. It will only take the slightest thing to tip me over. Is this what it felt like for you? You told me the stories, but I never realized. I can never remember being so terrified before.
The last words hurt to write, but they were true. He needed to admit that to himself, even if he would never admit it to anyone else.
I wish we were closer, so that I could see you. The distance is too much for me to cross right now. I'm not asking you for help, or even advice. I'm not even asking, I'm just telling you: I think that if you were here, it would make the pain easier to bear, and make it a little easier to remember who I am. I don't know who I am sometimes. Have you ever forgotten who you are? It's awful. It's so much worse than the pain.
I need you. I can't even tell you that.
Maybe I will if this ever ends.
Alfred set the pen down, and waited for the ink to dry. He would not sign it, because he was not going to send it. The ink dried, but he did not notice. He waited. It did not take long. He felt the sharp pain in his chest and winced, involuntarily touching the spot. He did not need to look down to know that a scratch had appeared. It had not pierced his skin as he had expected to. There was no blood, but it stung, and it had made the pain inside of him grow almost unbearable. It has started, he thought, but did not move. No, he had to wait for the President to hear the news. How long did it take? Hours? Days? He could not tell. The President burst into the room, finding Alfred still sitting at his desk, staring vacantly through the window into the April sunshine. "Fort Sumter has been attacked," he said.
"I know." Alfred finally stood. He put the piece of paper in a drawer and locked it. He put the key away safely, deep in his pocket. He turned and looked Abraham Lincoln in the eyes.
"I am calling for volunteers," the President said.
"Okay," replied Alfred.
That was when Alfred lost his mind. When he regained it, four years later, the line down his chest had become a ragged gash. It did not heal cleanly.)