1939-1940
It had been four years since Arthur Kirkland had met the magnetic Alfred Jones. Neither of them met up since then, but they were able to keep in touch through letters. Arthur still remembered the day he received that first scrap of paper. It was a Monday, the start of the week. Plain, average. Among the usual mail, a manilla envelope stuck out as if to say 'Read me!'. The contents were a simple white sheet of paper sprinkled with scribbled handwriting.
'Arthur,
Please don't be upset. I swear that I found your address by accident when I was searching the records for- Alright, maybe I did want to send you a letter on purpose. I just wanted to talk to you again even if it isn't face-to-face. I'll stop if you want me to.
Sincerely,
Alfred F. Jones'
That was how Arthur found himself meticulously writing letters in his spare time and re-reading the ones he received. They had both long outgrown the closing 'sincerely' and in its' stead, writing 'with love'. Of course, Alfred had started that tradition and it only seemed fitting that he adopted that as well. But then...things became more complicated. Poland had been invaded by Germany despite Hitler's promise of not taking any more land. Prime Minister Chamberlain resigned, ending with Churchill in office. Total war was declared. Relentless bombings took place soon after in London, accompanied by sirens that would haunt Arthur for the rest of his life. Somehow, the ever faithful Alfred still managed to send letters. Through it all, those words of reassurance and something else really made living worthwhile. A week or two after the bombings first took place, his heart dropped and world crashed from three sentences.
'I'm being drafted for war Arthur.
I'll try to write.
I love you.
Alfred'
Were the words lying to him? Surely they were wrong and Alfred was still safe in America. Surely this was all just a horrible nightmare. But the evidence was still there and everything felt so real. Wait. What was he thinking? Alfred was still alive. No need to panic. As long as he stayed positive, or so Arthur told himself, everything would be fine. Now it was merely a matter of waiting longer for those precious writings. So few came in the mail nowadays, but when one arrived, it was received happily. They were always kept together with a red piece of ribbon (which had slowly turned maroon after so much use). Whenever an evacuation was in order, the letters were always taken along. It was just habit now for Arthur to carry them in a coat pocket or hold them in his hands. The stack was about the size of a small novel. To him, it was the greatest piece of literature in the world. Better than Dickens, better than Shakespeare despite its simple words and smudged ink. The meaning and feeling that sent shivers down Arthur's spine could only come from Alfred's words. Never before could writing send him into such a state of bliss and peace.
Just as suddenly as they had come, the letters ceased. Hope and the small notes he had collected over the years were the only things keeping Arthur together. After what seemed like a lifetime of waiting, a solitary envelope slipped in from the mail. It was not what he had expected. Unfamiliar choppy lettering welcomed his eyes instead of the usual flowing curves.
'I regret to inform you that Alfred F. Jones has been killed in action. His last words during his flight were received via radio along with this address. I'm terribly sorry.
Arthur...never forget that night. You stole my heart and stopped it all at once. I was drawn to you for some reason, and God was I scared. What I mean to say is...I love you. I love you, I love you, I loveā¦..
Once again, I apologize. That was all he was able to say.
Matthew Jones'
The news was a stab to the heart, a knife to the chest, a burning slash to his being. Arthur bit back bitter tears, though their warmth was comforting in a way. Alfred's last words...they were about him? Even in the midst of war, even in fear of whatever had brought down the American, his last thoughts weren't about death.
"If only I could be with you in a different time," Arthur cried, the tears littering the page.
"I'd make sure the one who makes it out alive is you. I'd sell my soul just to see you again...I just couldn't help falling in love with you could I?"
Two days later, an attack happened in the middle of the night. Arthur's home was destroyed with him in it. The neighbors had said that the man made no attempts to escape the flames consuming the establishment. They were right. His last thoughts were of a starry night with a blonde sporting the most charismatic smile and a romance he never had time to experience.
