The Letter

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NOTICE: If you are reading this from my Blackberry App, you will not be able to see the font changes. I know that sounds strange, but there is a reason I have used two types of fonts in this story. I would suggest you scroll to the bottom of the story and click on the link "See Original Article". This will take you to the blog post and the story in its original form. Sorry about this folks but the app is limited right now to show different fonts.

Thanks - William DeSouza

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Dear Peter,

I figured it was high time I dropped you a line and not only say hi, but it would give us a chance to catch up with each other. I'm fine and - Look I can't finish this by starting off with a lie. It was my therapist that suggested I write you this letter, although I must confess I'm not sure what good it would do.

The young man leaned back in his chair and placed the pen down gently on the pad of lined paper. He took first one then two deep cleansing breaths to steady his nerves, and his hands which were now beginning to shake unsteadily.
Standing, he walked over to the fridge and retrieved a bottled water. The heat of the apartment quickly condensed droplets of water on the blue bottle, dripping down and running along his hand. He thought about the letter and what he was going to say as he walked back toward his seat and the task ahead.

This was not suppose to be a big deal he thought as he sat down, reaching over to pick up a coaster from the bottom drawer for the bottle.

“This was a simple letter.” he mused, “A confession and admission of events out of my control. It's also the hardest thing I've ever had to write.” Images and thoughts moved in and out of his consciousness.

He knew what he wanted to say, at least in general terms, but couldn't bring himself to come up with the words. He knew that Peter would not be the only person to read the letter, so it had to be just right. It had to be clear and to the point, at the same time explaining his true feelings.

After taking another sip of water and putting the bottle down, he picked up the pen and held it, ready to write.


This is one of the most difficult letters I’ve had to compose and you're at fault. I've known you better than anyone for twenty six years and in all that time you've never been honest with me. I know now that you’ve fed me a load of bull and it hurts.


There, he said it, and it felt good to finally open up with his true feelings about Peter.

I'm not sure you ever knew this, but your mother once told a story about a cat you used to have and how it died. At the time I thought she was kidding, that she just didn't like me and was trying to sway me away. But I know now that in the same way you tortured and ultimately killed that poor beast, you were doing that to me. Your mother was trying to send me a message for my own good.

He put down the pen and rubbed the fingers on his left hand, sore from pressing so hard on the page. He was on a roll and didn't want to let up, mostly out of fear that if he stopped he would never finish.

Do you remember that time back home? I was six and you took me up that road through the woods. I came back bloody, my pants soaked with, well, let's just say it wasn't good. You never thought I remembered that, did you? Well for years I didn't remember, I had blocked out that painful day for my whole life. It was just a bad dream I would say when I awoke dripping of sweat from the nightmare images. My therapist did some wonderful work to help me remember. To help me recall the horrible pain, your crazy sadistic laugh and the fear I saw in your own eyes. It’s like you couldn't stop yourself, as if you were afraid of stopping like you might loose yourself some how.


He paused again, recalling, reliving each detail of his life. The time in the woods, the incident with the cane, the time he went on his first high school date and Peter showed up to steal his date and humiliate him at the same time. It hurt so much as he recalled each time Peter took over to control his life.


I was just trying to be your friend and I thought I was. I trusted you, and in hind site I'm not sure why really. You listened to me and gave me advice, you didn't run away and I thought, no - believed, that you understood me. Again in retrospect I can see that it was all a game for you, some sick perverted game to hurt me. I can recall that day I got drunk, my first time. We were what, sixteen or seventeen? I knew my limit, I knew how much I could drink and I was ready to stop. But no, you had to make a point didn't you. Every time the waiter came by to refill the glass I put my hand over it. You forced my wrist to move it out of the way, allowing the waiter to fill the wine glass. Like an idiot I drank the glass, each and every sickening glass. You had them bring over shooters and rye, and I, like a dumb jerk, drank each one. I never knew what you were doing and I definitely did not know what I was doing. I'm lucky I survived with the amount of alcohol in my blood. I looked for you at the hospital and of course you were no where to be found. I had a lot to explain for that but I didn't remember much of what happened and no one believed me when I told them it was really your fault.

He paused again, this time standing and walked over to the window. The one bedroom apartment was small by modern standards but it was comfortable. The eight floor of the ten story heritage building gave him a commanding view. The four by four window overlooked a smaller group of low rise tenements and a small outdoor market. He opened the window to allow more air to pass through the fly and dust encrusted screen.


He thought about taking the screen off to clean it but that thought died quickly along with countless others he'd had in the past few years. The sounds coming from the market was a pleasant distraction but at the same time an unwanted one. He would much prefer to be down there, in the open without the imposed responsibility of writing the letter.

"The letter." He sighed to himself as he walked back to his desk.


I always wondered why no one believed me. Each and every time something went wrong I took the blame, not you. You know, I think I've finally figured it out, you manipulated me, and you manipulated the other person. Whoever it was they never stood a chance with you around. Come to think of it, with you around no one even noticed me, I should have kept in the background more often. Instead, like a fool I jumped out front thinking I'd be more like you. On queue you'd take the opportunity to fade away, leaving me holding the bag. You know, I really did want to be more like you, if you'd have given me the chance. I wanted to have friends like you, be more out going and

He stopped writing again, grasping the pen in both hands and tightening his grip till his muscles ached with the strain, nearly snapping the pen in two. A tear welled up in his eyes as he worked hard to keep his emotions under control and in check.

He had built up so much anger and resentment toward Peter that the letter was becoming even more difficult to write. Mostly because he also loved Peter. He wanted to emulate his nemesis, he wanted the nerve and strength of character to do all the exiting things Peter did, but he was afraid. He was willing to just be around Peter, living off the scraps of life.

He found it easer to think and speak about his feelings, his hands just not able to write as fast as his thoughts flowed.

Looking at the page in front of him he knew that the strength of his new found conviction to confront his old friend, and the power of his anger and resentment that had built up over the years was not being conveyed. He thought how much easer it was for someone to understand how you felt when you could speak to them in person. To see your body language, hear your tone.

The frustration he felt right now came close to putting him over the edge, and that would have been dangerous. "This is crazy." He said out loud as he took both hands and wiped away the tears in his eyes.

Standing again, anger quickly took over and with all his might he threw the pen against the far wall and brought down his fists, hitting the desk and the letter as hard as he could. It hurt, but felt good, even though he knew what would happen if he lost control.

Quickly he ran to the small kitchenette and opened a cupboard. Inside, near the front, were several medicine bottles of various colours and sizes. He reached up, moved some around and found the one he was looking for. Fumbling he opened it and took two caplets and swallowed them.

He leaned forward, both hands on the counter, his head sagging forward and his eyes closed. He knew that to loose control at this point would push him back to Peter and he had come too far to do something so stupid.

"I can't go back to that life, I can't take the punishment and abuse any longer." He sobbed. "I am in control, I am in power and no one can take that away from me again." He repeated it over and over as he let his body and mind relax.
After several minutes he straightened and looked outside, half expecting to see a waning sun as it sets behind the buildings. Instead he saw a deep blue sky with the sun high, beaming down on the drab grey apartment blocks. He looked over at the clock and only then realized It was two-twenty in the afternoon. It seemed much later, it seemed as if he had been working on the letter all day.

He smiled, and that surprised him. He had long forgotten what it was like to smile He chuckled, feeling better. Subconsciously he realized the antidepressants were kicking in but he didn't care.


Doctor Hibert said that I should open up more, that I've got the capacity to be and do anything I want, that I don't need friends like you. And you know what - I actually believe him this time. I've met some people who've gone through the same type of pain. They’ve had their own Peter's haunt them and what they've shown me is I'm not alone. I like not being alone and finding other's who won't hurt me and will allow me to be a friend.


He had been referred to Doctor Hibert after his last stay in hospital, after Peter had pulled another stunt that broke his left arm. Of course Peter never went to the hospital to visit him, or say sorry, of just to see how he was doing. But that was all right because Doctor Hibert visited him each day, taking the time to listen without judging or labelled.

I was just thinking back to when I met Doctor Hibert. You were the topic of conversation of course. But in a strange way, we were talking about me and not you. Hibert talked about and focused his attention on me...


The letter went on for three more pages and near the end each line got easer to write and each word requiring less effort to compose. The letter flowed from his anger, his passion, and his healing. It pained him to remember the past but he looked forward to the future, his future, not Peter's. His hand hurt, his mussels strained as much as his emotions as he completed his arduous task.

The city train slowed on the elevated platform. He stood and with confidence strode over to the door just as they slid open. Getting off the train he oriented himself and with bold steps walked out of the station toward his appointment.

He only had four blocks to walk, but it allowed him to stretch his legs. He was locked up in his apartment for the past two days preoccupied with writing the letter to Peter and for a short time afterward worried about Peter's reaction. It took an hour on the phone with his doctor to convince him that getting out was the right thing to do, but he managed it.

The eight story medical building looked old, a throw back to the nineteen thirties era art deco style that populates the area. He walked with his head lowered, averting his gaze when he approached or was approached by another person. He knew he wasn't totally cured, but it was a beginning.


The sign on the door read 'Doctor Thomas Hibert - Psychotherapist. He opened the door and went in. Doctor Hibert was leaning over the receptionist going over someone’s chart. The doctor looked up and genuinely smiled - a grin that went from ear to ear.


The doctor walked around the reception area to greet his patient. Holding out his hand he said, "Peter, I'm so glad you were able to make it. It's such a nice day out I thought you might skip out on me." The doctor smiled again, "So, how've you been?"


"Good doctor - I've finished the letter and I think it sums up all I wanted to say." Peter was sporting a satisfied look, as if a weight had been removed from his shoulder.

It was a chapter in his life he wanted to forget, to shed his other personality, his other self and his nemesis. As long as he maintained control, as long as he exerted his good influence over his self destructive side, his dual persona stayed away, cowering in some dark recess of his subconscious like the bully he was.

"Excellent Peter. Lets step into my office and we'll read it together - shall we?" The doctor griped his shoulder, firm and gentle at the same time, directing Peter into the inner office to revile more of the good Peter, to shore up a fragile personality in order that it became dominant over his own future.