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Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Hellboy or BPRD characters.
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It is more than two months before the first letter arrives. It comes in a plain white envelope, the message itself written on a page torn from a legal memo pad. Zaida's handwriting is sensible and easily read, lacking the elaborate loops and curls Abe would expect. She begins without preamble:
Yesterday I watched as a homeless woman shared her sandwich with a stray cat. Both were filthy and battle-scarred, the woman prone to bouts of angry shouting which made me suspect she was schizophrenic. Minutes ago I'd seen her scrounging through the dumpster behind a fast food restaurant where she no doubt found her meal. For someone like her, poverty would be a huge step up, yet she didn't hesitate to share what little she had with the sad, scrawny animal who flinched at every sudden movement. Why is it that those who can afford it the least often show the greatest generosity?
At the bottom of the envelope is a bright red bottle cap. Abe tips it into his hand, curious as to why she would include such an odd token. His slender webbed fingers close around the crimped metal disc…
…and experiences unseasonable warmth. Sweat flows down Zaida's uneven features, causes her T-shirt to cling to her back. With so much of herself exposed, she must endure the passersby's furtive stares, their expressions ranging from morbid curiosity to outright revulsion. Yet even they are preferable to those who do not look at her at all, even when they speak to her, as if to shun her from existence. She does not let any of this bother her. It is a beautiful day and she means to enjoy it.
A small convenience store looms ahead; what some call a mom'n'pop operation. A lonely chime sounds as she pushes open the door. The blast of cool air that strikes her face brings a sigh of relief. The cash register is manned by an older gentleman who is probably the owner of the establishment. Once he gets over his initial shock at her appearance, his weathered features settle back into surly indifference. He watches suspiciously as she peruses the beverages. This little out-of-the-way store has a selection of nameless sodas in a variety of "fruit" flavors. Zaida grins, opens the glass-fronted refrigerator door--which opens with a faint suctioned hiss--and chooses a clear bottle filled with bright reddish-pink liquid. She hasn't had a strawberry soda in years. She pays the craggy-faced man, then asks if he has a bottle opener. Without a change in his expression, the old man pulls out a pocketknife and unfolds the proper tool. He hands it to the scarred woman, who thanks him. Pshht! The bottle cap clatters on the scuffed countertop. Zaida returns the pocketknife, picks up the cap, and exits the store. She sticks the bottle cap into her pocket without any particular plan for the useless bit of metal. In the heat of the day, the bottle sweats in her hand almost as much as she. The soda fizzes happily. She takes a swig. Ahhh! Bliss…
…Abe blink-blinks as the moment fades. The sticky-sweet taste of strawberry soda lingers in his mouth. He smiles.
The letters come without pattern. Sometimes Abe receives several in a week, while other times an envelope doesn't arrive for the better part of a month. Sometimes the letters are pages long, crammed into their envelopes so the sides bulge; and sometimes they are only a paragraph long. Once, Abe receives a letter that is only a single sentence: Sometimes I think I can still feel you. There is always some small item included; pebbles and feathers, pressed leaves and buttons, and once a butterfly's wing, so fragile Abe is astounded that it has survived its journey intact. Each simple offering holds an experience, a moment in Zaida's life. Abe treasures them. The objects lie in neat rows on a shelf, or line the wall in little individual frames, their numbers steadily growing as more of Zaida's correspondence comes in. She never says "Dear Abe," or "Sincerely/Love/Yours." It is as if she is writing a journal mailing it to him a piece at a time.
I'm sorry if my writing's a bit shaky. There was a horrific car accident which I'm still recovering from. A young man was thrown through the windshield of his car and tumbled across the pavement. I could see blood oozing from his ears, his limbs twisted and bent. I only had seconds to save him and when I did I blacked out almost instantly. I woke in the hospital, and for a second I thought I was back at the Bureau and that you would come strolling in at any moment. But of course, that was foolishness. I unhooked all the wires and tubes, found my clothes in the room's closet, and looked for a way to make a discreet exit. Unfortunately, the incident with the injured man, followed by my own miraculous recovery, prompted a great deal of attention from the hospital staff. I barely made it ten feet from my room when I felt a hand grasp my arm. I very nearly screamed when that happened, not because I was startled, but because aside from you, I still don't like others to touch me. It was a male nurse who'd caught me. I expected him to take me back to my room and perhaps call a doctor, but instead he led me down a hallway and towards a pair of doors that were unmistakably an exit probably used by the maintenance staff. The nurse stared at me for a moment, then reached into his pocket and handed me something, then he just walked away. He never said a word to me. I didn't have the heart to keep the thing he gave me, for fear of losing it, so I've decided to entrust it with you. Keep it safe. It was precious to him.
The item is a tiny crucifix with a hole at the top where one could thread a chain or cord to wear it as a necklace. It lies in Abe's palm like a glimmer of hope.
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Months trickle past.
The monarch butterflies are beginning their migration. How incredible it is, that something so delicate and frail can travel thousands of miles, through foul weather and predators and overzealous people with nets to reach their mating grounds and then fly all the way back to lay their eggs so that the next generation might continue the cycle. The odds against them are so many, and yet they thrive. They give me hope.
After a while, Abe gets a filing box to store the accumulated letters. It isn't long before it is filled.
Every morning when I wake, the first thing I see is my hands. They are the only parts of me I enjoy looking at, because they remind me of you.
The postmarks come from all over. Zaida seldom spends more than a few weeks in one place, which makes answering her letters impossible. This saddens Abe at first.
I feel so much more optimistic than I used to. Every moment of my life used to be an inescapable chore. Now I find myself looking forward to the days so that I can tell you about them. Though I know our communication is one-sided, I still feel as if you are with me. I can close my eyes and imagine you reading these words, holding the silly trinkets I send you. Do you keep all these things, I wonder?
His pulse quickens each time the Bureau's mail comes in, hoping for one of the precious envelopes with his name neatly spelled out: Abraham Sapien, c/o The Bureau of Paranormal Research and Defense (he chuckles at this; officially, the Bureau doesn't even exist, and yet they have their own postal delivery). Often when he returns from a particularly unpleasant assignment he will find a letter waiting for him upon his return. No matter how downtrodden he feels, the sight of that plain white envelope always brightens his mood.
Autumn is my favorite time of the year. In my childhood I didn't experience such changes in the seasons. I think that makes me appreciate them all the more. The leaves have turned to their sunset colors, the mornings are crisp, there's a faint spiciness in the air. There are pumpkins and squash and multicolored ears of corn in every store. Flocks of birds dance in the sky or move with single-minded purpose towards warmer climes, while the hardier crows come to build their nests and fill the air with their raucous caws. I don't see why people dislike crows. They are so full of character. When the light hits their feathers just so, they take a magnificent blue sheen that's almost metallic. They are clever and pragmatic, and yes, sometimes pesky. I wouldn't trade them for all the exotic rainbow-plumed birds in the world.
This latest envelope is oddly lumpy. Abe tears it open, pulls out the folded page, and something falls out and clatters to the floor. Abe picks it up; it's a game piece from a chessboard, a plastic white pawn. He clutches it in his hand…
"…to B4." There is a small crowd gathered around the two opponents who are seated at one of the public chessboards situated throughout the park. There is nothing remarkable about the game itself, save for one of its players. Black is a middle-aged Asian man with wire-rimmed glasses and a thick mop of unkempt hair. White is, in fact, a black man, mid-thirties, who stares ahead with an enigmatic expression, hands folded calmly on his lap. A yellow Labrador sprawls at his feet, indifferent to the men's competition.
Zaida knows nothing about chess. She watches the carved pieces move about without the slightest clue as to what they're doing or who's winning. The Asian maneuvers his knight, announcing his move and adding "check" with a hint of smugness.
The black man--who is white--smiles and calmly intones his own move. The Asian obligingly lifts the white queen and sets it down on the appropriate square. After a moment's consideration, his face falls. This is all the hint Zaida needs to know white has won. It isn't long before the black man murmurs "checkmate" and the black king lies on its side, a fallen monarch. The onlookers sigh and murmur appreciatively. A few of them even applaud. The Asian stands with as much dignity as he can muster. "Good game."
The black man offers his hand, which his opponent shakes after only a second's hesitation. Then the Asian walks away. The black man reaches down, picks up an old cigar box, and places the chess pieces inside it. Zaida marvels at how sure his movements are as he gathers the scattered pieces. He barely has to feel around for them. When they are safely stowed, the man tucks the cigar box under his arm, then reaches down to grasp the handle of his dog's harness. The yellow Lab gets to its feet with a bored grunt.
"Home, Sam," the man says and follows the dog's lead with trusting steps. After a few paces he stops, swivels his head, and says, "Worked out what to say yet?"
Zaida starts. "Uh…H-how did--"
"You were shuffling your feet." The man smiles. "Lotta grit on the pavement, makes a heck of a loud scraping noise."
"Oh." Zaida feels the heat rise to her face. "Er, that was very impressive, the way you kept track of all those moves."
The man shrugs. "Trick is to picture the board in your head. If you can do that, the one on the table's just extra."
"Makes sense."
The man smiles. "I'm Anthony."
Zaida catches herself. "Julia."
"Julia," he stretches the syllables out, as if tasting them. His voice is deep and rich. The sound brings a flutter to her stomach. "Julia, would you care to keep a gentleman company on his walk home?"
She hesitates. "Um, I'd like to, but…" People are watching them, talking. One of them laughs. Making wisecracks about the blind man and the freak.
"What?"
"I'm kind of," she grimaces, "strange looking."
"I promise not to stare."
This makes Zaida laugh, which causes Anthony's smile to deepen. There are pronounced creases at the corners of his eyes and mouth. Zaida thinks they make him look distinguished. "Other people will stare," she warns.
He shrugs, an odd thing for a sightless man to do. "I won't notice, and I'm sure you're used to a few tactless looks."
His confidence decides her. "Alright then. I would be happy to keep you company."
They walk side-by-side, chatting companionably…
…Abe gives a shake of the head as if rousing from a daydream and stares at the chess piece in his hand with a frown. He sets it on an end table, unfolds the single page.
I've met a man named Anthony. He is blind, the result of an operation to remove a brain tumor. We met in a park and became almost instant friends. He reminds me of you. Intelligent, sensitive, slightly mischievous. I'd planned on leaving a week ago, but find myself lingering just to spend more time with him. He knows what I look like. I let him touch my face. That is how much I've come to trust him, and in such a short period of time! His hands were so warm and gentle that it didn't bother me at all. He says my scars show that I am stronger than most people, to have survived so much…
Abe suddenly realizes he's grinding his teeth. He folds the paper with care, sets it on the table beside the pawn. He stares at the innocuous plastic figure for a long moment, then abruptly snatches it up and tosses it into the trashcan.
Weeks pass. No letter comes.
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I do not kiss him. I want to. My lips burn with wanting. But I don't. I do not want our time together to end.
We lie in bed together, Anthony and I, his arm around my waist. I think I am in love. Anthony shows the same gentle consideration when we make love as he did when he first examined my face. He knows every scar on my body in intimate detail. He says I am beautiful.
I have never let anyone get so close to me before, save for one. I feel a guilty pang at the thought of Abe. I haven't written to him in some time. He must be worried. Assuming he even bothers to read them, a snide voice whispers at the back of my mind. I try to ignore it. I hold up my hand, spread the fingers to see the webbing between them. If I write to him now, what do I say? Hey, you'll never guess what happened. I met a great guy and we're sleeping together. Augh! That'd go over well.
Do you really think he'd care? the little voice snickers, He's got more important things to think about than your adolescent love life. Shut up.
Anthony rouses with a deep inhalation, stretches so his body presses against me. He nuzzles my neck. "What're you thinking about?" It's as if he can sense my troubled thoughts. Like someone else I know.
"Nothing," I tell him. I turn to plant a kiss on his forehead, his cheek, down the side of his neck. His skin is warm and has a faint salty taste. I wonder what his lips taste like. But if I kiss them, I will not be able to stop my gift from restoring his sight. To a blind man I am beautiful; to a man with functional eyes…
My attentions have awakened him fully. He pushes me onto my back with gentle but firm hands, his perfect mouth curved in a lovely smile as he lowers his head. Touch and taste and smell; these are all the senses he needs to explore my body. I have healed many rape victims. Their pain-filled memories still haunt my dreams. I have never experienced the joyful side of sexuality, even secondhand, until Anthony. I groan and arch my back, my troubled thoughts washed away in waves of pleasure.
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A/N: Okay, I totally didn't plan that. I just started typing and the next thing I know Anthony makes his appearance. Makes me wonder where the heck this'll go before I get to the end (which, by the way, I already have drafted). Wherever it goes, it's sure to be an interesting ride. ;-)
