By Paco Garcia Jaen Blip… Blip… Blip… He heard the machine blipping, counting the beatings of his heart and wondering how much longer he would have to listen to the intermittent sensory assault that was keeping him awake. He had got used to the smell by now. He’d been there long enough to numb the […]
She has told me I should write a letter to myself. But there is no “myself” anymore. It’s “us” now. It’s been us for a long time and we don’t want to hide it anymore. We understand each other better than anyone else. We know us. The real us, not the me that I’ve put up for the world to like me. So we’ll write to you instead because writing to myself is stupid. We already know about me. About us!
I won’t tell you everything. No, I won’t tell you anything. You must be with them, otherwise why has she suggested that I write to you? That’s because they’ve got to you, but they won’t get to me! I will not tell them anything either, even if they keep giving me these medicine, though I’m sure they’re not medicines, I have seen medicines before and they don’t look like these.
I am so sorry I haven’t been in touch for so long. The nice people at the institution where I live said they didn’t have any pens left, which is very strange because how do they write then? And I know they do because I have seen her coming into my room with notepads but not with pens.
I don’t know dear, I’m just a silly old woman, so what do I know?
If writing this letter is not proof that my sanity has left me, nothing is. The likelihood of you finding this this piece of paper is next to nothing, but then, the likelihood of me ending up where I am is meant to be next to nothing too.
I shouldn’t be here. Neither should you.