June 6th, 1892
Dear Athan,
Hello. I hope it's okay that I'm writing to you. They gave me paper and said I should write something since I'm going away soon. I don't know where, nobody tells me anything, but I think it's far. They keep whispering like I can't hear them. I always hear them.
They told me it's to keep everyone safe. I don't understand what I did wrong. I didn't mean to do anything bad. I swear I didn't. Marcel just fell, and then everyone got really scared and loud. I was scared too. He was always nice to me. He let me hold the watering can sometimes. I didn't hurt him. But Father says I did. He says I bring bad things.
They said it's because of the prophecy. I don't know what that means really, but I think it's why they don't let me out. Mother used to say I was born under a bad star. Does that mean the stars hate me? I never even saw them. My window is too high and dusty. I try to see the sky sometimes, but all I see is gray.
I wanted to say happy birthday. I think it's today. They never tell me the date, but I remember because every year around this time, the hallway smells like cake and flowers and candles. I always think that maybe you'll come to the door and bring me a slice, or even just say hello. But no one does.
Do you remember when we were little? I do. I remember your hand. It looked just like mine. I remember once you pressed your fingers through the crack under the door and I did too, and we touched. Only for a second. But I remember it every day.
Sometimes I try to draw what I think your face looks like now. You're probably taller. Maybe your voice is deeper. Mine still sounds the same. I don't talk much. There's no one to talk to. The walls creak and the wind makes sounds at night. I named the sounds so I don't feel so alone.
I miss you even though I never really got to know you. That's a strange feeling, isn't it? Missing someone who you only saw through a hole in a door. But you're my brother. My twin. That has to mean something, right? I always imagine what it's like outside this wing. I wonder if the sun feels different. If the floors are warmer. If you still play games or if you go to lessons. I don't have lessons anymore. I had one once, but the tutor got scared and left. I think I frightened him by existing.
Father doesn't talk to me unless he's angry. Mother sometimes looks at me like she wants to say something but forgets how. The nurse says I shouldn't expect much from people. That I should be thankful they keep me fed. But I don't want to be thankful. I want to be loved. I want to be seen.
Do you think they'd still send me away if I was normal? I try to be good. I don't scream anymore. I stopped asking questions. I even stopped crying so they wouldn't get mad. But they're still mad. They always are.
I don't know what it's like where I'm going. They say it's a school, but not like yours. It's far, and cold, and for boys like me. I don't know what that means. Maybe there are more boys born under bad stars. I hope one of them talks to me.
Will you write to me, Athan? Even just once? You don't have to say much. Just "hello" or "I remember you." That would be enough. I just don't want to disappear all the way. Not without someone remembering I was here.
I hope the cake today is good. I hope the candles are bright. I hope you laugh a lot.
Love,
Lou
P.S. I'm leaving tomorrow, I think. Or the day after. I'll keep this letter hidden under my pillow in case they forget to send it. They forget things sometimes. But I won't forget you.
.
.
June 20th, 1892
Dear Athan,
Thank you for your letter. I was so happy when I saw the envelope I almost dropped it in the mud, but I didn't! I kept it safe. I read it three times before bed. Then once in the morning. Then again after lunch. I think I know it by heart now.
You said you remember our games. That made me really happy. I remember too. The tapping on the door and the whispering and the hole we looked through. That was my favorite game. I don't think anyone here plays games like that.
The school is… different. It smells like old wood and wet shoes. The windows are too high to see out of, and the other boys don't talk much. One boy named Henri pulled my chair out when I was about to sit, and I fell. I didn't cry, though. I didn't want to.
They give us porridge every morning. It's gray. I think it used to be white. The teachers are very quiet, but they look at me funny. Like they already know about me. Like Father told them everything.
Sometimes I pretend you're here too, in the other dorm room. I pretend you'll knock on the wall at night, and I'll knock back.
I showed your letter to a boy named Emile. He said it had nice handwriting. I didn't tell him that it didn't really sound like you. It sounded more like Mother. That's okay though. Maybe you asked her to write it. Maybe your hands were too tired. Or you were too busy. I understand.
Please write again. Or tell Mother to write for you if you're still too busy. I don't mind. Just knowing someone remembers me helps a lot.
Love,
Lou