Disclaimer: I do not own Alex Rider.
Okay. I have a confession. This is what happens when I set myself a deadline. A rushed chapter that's really, really short. But don't worry. It's actually pretty important to the story. You'll see why next chapter.
Dear Yassen.
God. I feel really, really stupid writing to you, especially seeing as you're dead. In fact, I think this is really stupid. But my stupid counsellor says I have to write a stupid letter to you to address my 'issues with reality and fiction'. Whatever that means. I think she's the one who's crazy, actually.
She says your death had a 'prolific impact on my being' because I had 'a fixated attachment to the presence of Yassen Gregorovich as a remnant of your father's life'. Her words, not mine. I didn't even want to see her after Snakehead but MI6 made me. They can be pretty persuasive when they need it. I'm not sure why I'm actually doing this. She says it's to 'reconcile the difficulties you have with accepting the fact that your father left very little trace of himself behind after his passing' and that 'Yassen Gregorovich shared the kind of relationship with your father that you subconsciously accepts as your own'.
Does that make much sense to you? That would make one of us. It's weird. Until you died, I didn't realise how much it would do to me. Look at me now. You called me a child, but I'm not anymore. I've seen things you've probably seen. I guess that makes us even.
But are we even, really? I'm just the tiniest bit jealous of you, I admit it. You knew my dad and you never even told me anything about him before it happened. Did you know Ash? He was in Scorpia too. I don't think you'd have liked him because he kind of blew up my parents on a plane. You wouldn't have done that, just like you wouldn't kill a child while looking at them.
That's right. Your secret is out Yassen. You can't kill a child if you're looking at them. Blow them up while you're on a private jet thousands of miles away? Sure, no problem. But stab them, shoot them, anything up close and you can't do it. I wonder why.
Maybe you're crazy too. It would explain a few things. I'm back in school again, in case you want to know. Jack is still on edge about the year. I turned fifteen yesterday and had a small party. Just a few mates and Jack. We had a cake too.
So. Now. To address my 'issues'. I wish you were here because, strange as it sounds, I miss you. Even if you did kill my uncle (You're not forgiven for that, by the way. I still hate you) I wish I could talk to you. Just one day of proper talk about my mum and dad. Did you know her? I saw her once, when I was shot. It was kind of nice in a pathetic way. Did you know your mum? I guess you must have.
What was she like? Did she tuck you in and hug you goodnight? Make your tea every night? I suppose she must have because that's what mums do. It's funny, to think someone tucked you in when you were a little kid. Hilarious, actually.
You know what? This letter is stupid. So that's it. I'm done. You're dead, I'm alive. That's that. So why can't I stop thinking about how much I need to talk to you?
I think that's enough rambling for now. So I hope you write back soon (Just my little joke).
Alex Rider.
Merry Christmas