Dear Sofia, can I call you dear? My mamamia, please don’t shed a tear, in any manner, my future baby mama.
They say men write letters in times of raging war, when their hearts have an unsettled fear that they may never again see their loved ones, that they may never again hold them in their arms, kiss their warm lips or even dwell in their fantasies. I didn’t write this letter however in no such manner, or at least I can assure you Sofia this was no letter written in fear.
It’s been years since I last wrote, you remember? I used to write and perform poems for Mayor Clifford before the bubonic plague descended and everything went to hell and people lost their love for art. I sometimes muse that my rhythm and enchantment with words must have been the spark that ignited that flame in your heart, to love an old blunder like me. I muse too that it must have been the lasting glue that held us together for so long even after I lost my sight to the plague.
I can assure you dear that this words will end in your tears or in your worst fears, heck love, I didn’t even write this piece myself. You see Tommy, from Ms. Monica’s massage parlor, he wrote it down by dictation. Of course I heard him heave a couple of times and sigh in displeasure or disdain but well love he was compelled to finish this sad note from the moment the first drop of ink from his fountain pen hit the parched paper.
I will try and use simpler words dear Sofia, being blind is a curse, a curse bestowed upon me by the unfortunate power and misfortune that befell us all while we were weaker men. So dear, I am blind but not deaf nor impervious to pain. I know of your affair with Marcus the brewer, and with Tony the deer hunter. I don’t blame you dear, but I pity your calm, your reassuring grasp, your heated passion and your unfaltering tongue that lies to me day in day out.
I have done many misdeeds in the past love, did you know that before I started performing I was a bandit in the Far East. We killed men dear Sofia, we killed fathers and brothers, and now at the horizon of this morbid note I hear their whispers as they draw nearer and their cries for vengeance draw closer. They say taking a life is simple but living with the act itself is the matter. I had actually believed dear that in all honesty I had escaped my past and in your love Sofia, my mamamia, I had found Heaven near.
I was wrong love, wrong to place such expectation upon you and wrong to base all my piousness and redemption upon our love. In an act of utmost sin and depravity I have murdered Marcus and Tony by a brew and meal prepared by their own hands but faulted by my own. Don’t get it twisted, their death befell them not at their betrayal, but an inner conviction to balance their wrong with my own disillusion of justice.
Dear Sofia by the time this reaches you, I’ll be at the harbor depths, a blind dead man, Dear Sofia in the next life, can I call you dear, my mamamia, please don’t shed a tear, in any manner, you would have been my future baby mama.