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Lucy Montgomery [userpic]

Email to Emi.

March 20th, 2007 (12:16 pm)

To: esalgari@euphemewebmail.net
Subject: Re: Us.

My boy,

I am not a girl to own every particle of blame, Emi, and to do so is murdering me. Humbling myself is murdering me. Knowing it truly is all my doing is murdering me. Listening to you or reading your words that say you knew you were right about me all along... and trying not to say what I think...

Emilio, don't you understand that I am hurting, too?

Your anger is justified, but will I have to live the rest of all this with it hanging over my head? Can you truly forgive me? I don't know if you can.

He left and I will forget him over time, just as everyone else who leaves is forgotten. I remember forgetting. I loved someone else once-- I think I did. I don't remember, not truly, only that his name was Jack and his eyes were blue and he liked my red coat.

If this happens. If we are to stay together. Won't you always ask me questions? Won't it always come up in a fight-- if he had stayed, if he had stayed. You may forgive me, but will I ever win your trust again?

I've done my penance in tears. I feel like a husk, dried and empty. I left you so you could have your time, but you are still angry. Every paragraph speaks it. No matter how you love me, you

It is all my fault, Emi, truly it is. I love you. I do. God knows I do, and sometimes it makes no sense. I can't let you go. I can't. My heart cracks in two at the thought of you leaving.

But I'm scared to stay and risk it, having this never go away, this guilt and this sickness I feel. I'm at a loss. I don't know what to do. Leaving kills me. Staying makes me afraid at every turn.

So I stay here in limbo. I pray, sometimes. Did you know I pray? I do.

I pray that I'll be able to swallow my pride and that you will truly forgive me and not just try. I pray we'll make it.

It's only that I can't come home yet. I don't feel like the prayer's reached the right ears.

I love you, Emilio. I miss you. I miss your hand in my back pocket, I miss your smile, I miss you sprawling into me and nearly tipping me out of bed when you sleep. I ache for you in a way I never imagined. It hurts my body to think of you, all of me, every single part of me.

I wish you were here. I wish you knew everything.

This letter isn't enough. Nothing is.

Your aching Principessa,



Posted by: Emilio Salgari (tano_pirata)
Posted at: March 20th, 2007 07:40 pm (UTC)

To: lmontgomery@euphemewebmail.net
From: esalgari@euphemewebmail.net
Subject: re: Us.


A part of me is broken that you are hurting, princess. It aches and it sits, rotting beautifully in my heart as I wait for you to return to me. The other part; a darker part I do not share, a part that lives by rules far different than that of the average man hopes you do hurt, because that means I mean something; because it means you are sorry, and that you are truthful. This part, it sits like a monster; a leviathan at the bottom of my gut, whispering me through mephitic bubbles of air that it releases when it rumbles.

I love you, Lucy; and I hope that in some ways I have proven it. They may be meaningless to anyone else but I hope you of all people would understand the true depth of my actions. It is not something I take lightly: acting. I leap where I cannot see, yes. But the decision is always heartfelt, always steeled and forged to solidity.

The prayers will only reach the right ears when you know to whom those ears belong; and even then, what is a prayer without an action to sustain it?

I miss you, too, Lucy. I miss your smile, your breath on my cheek, and the sweet, lilting scent that you carry with you. But your prayers will not be answered from hundreds of miles away and Purgatory is a place of abeyance, an anteroom to decision and purging. Limbo is not where you will find the truth, nor where it will ever rush to find you.

Please, come back. We will not make it, we cannot make it, with you so far away. I need your eyes to look into; I need your voice whispered into my ear. You wish I were there, but the only possibility is you being here, my love.

You ask if it will ever be settled; if I will ever ask if he had stayed...

... I saw Marlowe in the hallway just the other day. Come home and we'll find out.

I love you, Lucy.

Emilio Salgari.

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