Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 115885 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 464(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115885 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 464(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
Busking is good. Two music producers from the UK tried to buy my songs, but there’s just something too bittersweet about being poor and talented and struggling. Once I have the taste of the money, I’ll be a goner, and I still want to enjoy what I do.
I don’t want to blab, so I’ll leave it at that. How have you been? How is college? Do you have any plans for the holidays? Christmas?
Have you ever had a mince pie? (It does not, in fact, have mince in it.)
Attached are some stamps for you to use to send me back a letter. I know the student life can be financially challenging and such.
Love,
Like,
Faithfully,
Mal
Dear Rory,
I realize I might’ve come on a bit too strong in my previous letter. Perhaps talking about the ghosts of our fathers seeing me wank was not the best way to start up a conversation. I don’t know. I’m new to this whole pen-pal thing.
It’s just that things have been a bit off since you left. I’m trying to make them better.
My sister, Bridget, had a miscarriage. She was seven months into the pregnancy. We are all quite devastated. Mam went to Dublin for the month to help her out. I’m still busking and looking after the house. I took a side job on the farm so I could help Mam since she stopped working to be with Bridget. They say Bridge is depressed, and they gave her some pills, but I think Mam needs something, too.
Everyone else is fine. Kathleen has started wearing very short skirts and took up cooking. I think my mate Sean has a massive crush on her, so perhaps we’ll hear wedding bells soon.
I wrote a few songs I’d love for you to hear, but no worries if you’re busy. If you’re not, you could always send me your phone number. Also, feel free to answer by email if it’s easier (yes, I’m aware I’m breaking more napkin rules):
Malachydoharrr1989@gmail.com
Or you can just snail mail something back. Or just answer through the power of telepathy.
(I’m kidding. Don’t do that. It is not a reliable form of communication.)
Enclosed are more stamps, in case you’ve lost the previous ones.
Snogs and hugs,
Mal
Dear Rory,
Congrats on the photography award. Saw it in your college’s newsletter.
Very proud.
(And equally pathetic.)
Mal
Dear Rory,
How about just tell me you’re still alive and I’ll leave you alone?
Cheers,
Mal
Dear Mal,
Good news: I’m alive.
Bad news: Sometimes I wish I wasn’t.
I didn’t want to write you this letter.
In fact, I never meant to hurt you the way I am about to. Please remember that as you read on.
I need you to stop writing to me. You have no idea how painful it is to see your name. We cannot be together. I’ve moved on, and I’m trying to rebuild my life.
After I came back from Ireland, I found out I was pregnant. I was scared, I was alone, and I was at college. I didn’t have any means to take care of the baby. I had no one to turn to. Becoming a single mother, alone and financially struggling, sounded like a nightmare I was all too familiar with. Reliving my mother’s life was out of the question.
I debated contacting you several times, but what could I say?
You are there, and I am here, and it’s not like you could have provided for the baby and me.
I had an abortion. I don’t regret it, although a part of me will always mourn the loss of this child. Every year, I will wake up and think what age they’d be right now. What they’d look like. What they’d be up to.
You were a beautiful mistake, but that doesn’t mean I don’t regret you.
Every time you write to me, it’s a reminder of what I shouldn’t have done.
Make it stop.
If you care about me at all, you will respect my wishes and leave me alone.
Not yours,
Rory
The letter cuts me open like a sharp blade, guts the parts she left inside me, and dumps them onto the floor. Everything about it makes me want to throw up.
The content.
The confession.
The abortion.
The mistake.
The fact that it was printed and not handwritten—I’d handwritten all of my letters to her—the ink smudged enough for me to guess she crammed it into an envelope off the printer in a hurry, not even giving it time to dry. That hurts, too.
She sounds icy and emotionally separated and different—not the girl who asked me about God and ran with me in the rain.
I snap. I finally—finally—snap.
Cue a destructive bender.
Mam is away, Bridget is a mess, Rory aborted our child, called me a mistake, and made it clear we are over.
I have nothing to live for, or die for, or look forward to.
I drive down to the village. My plan is to buy whatever alcohol I can afford, which is not much considering Mam hasn’t been working and I’m paying all the bills and buying all the food. When I get to the register and slam two bottles of vodka in front of the cashier, I rummage through my pockets to find out they’re empty. I had a slow busking day. The weather was a state, and whatever I had, I threw into a homeless guy’s mason jar because he looked like he needed it.