To Whom it May Concern,
I’ve received your mail. It is most interesting that you’ve found such a rare book. It’s almost difficult to comprehend finding such an unrealistic piece of literature. It makes others feel like you are lying to them. Like maybe you aren’t who you say you are.
I apologize for my cynicism on the matter, it’s just that you came at an incredibly strange time. Not only did the unfortunate events with Alex occur recently, but other dark affairs have had their way with my sanity as well. About two months ago, someone very close to me died. My sister, Sara, was killed outside of a bar in Trenton.
It seems like just when I begin to understand and have a vivid, unmistakable clarity that peers into an outwardly malicious world, something comes to starve it. When I begin to digest the beauty and comfort of the only place I know, there comes a disease to choke even feelings of apathy out of me. I am torn.
I am concerned, not for myself, but for the mentality of all those around me. My sister was a gorgeous little girl, not two weeks older than twenty-one. It may have even been her first time at a bar. I am troubled by those that litter the world with their violent capacity to do what this mother fucker did to her. I hate the fucker, even if hate doesn’t solve anything. If I found him, I would be very belligerent, very violent, and I would kill him. Even if violence doesn’t solve anything.
Sara was an artist. Immediately, you picture some pretentious girl with an outstanding hair color and piercings all over her putting together wire hangers and staples and other “fashionable” things to create “modern art,” or what I call, “the same bullshit as before.” Not Sara. Sara’s creations were only for those who are truly perceptive to creativity. Whatever she was making or doing - she bled guile.
One of Sara’s best creations was a video of myself and her. We both still lived at home, with our parents. We had been smoking pot with a few close friends and Sara was simply taping. It was humorous to watch later, but Sara’s art didn’t emerge until later in the video. Everyone had gone home, and Sara and I lay down in the dim basement, just talking.
Sara moves the camera to my mouth as I speak and lets her smoke trickle past the lens. The filter inspired the feeling of a different kind of reality. Something that was slightly off. Not quite here.
“Sara, when are you going to open up to me? When are you going to trust me?”
She sighs and pauses. The camera rolls for a few seconds in silence, catching only brief twitches of my lips. Then, as she speaks, she discreetly positions the camera to record just my eyes staring at hers.
“I don’t need to trust you… I love you.”
It was as if she predicted what the next shot would bring, and she crafted my emotion to display it. The tape rolled on my eyes spitting tears. It was the first time my sister said she loved me. And because she caught it, and because she knew, I was then aware of what she was doing. Sara waited and waited for the perfect moment to display her gratitude for my affection. The tape finally goes black after many tears and quiet sobs.
This is why she is an artist and I am very thankful that this video is here, intact. Now I know - not believe, but know that even in death, her spirit can capture the yawning root of my human soul the very same way her camera did.
Compared to what we’re doing here, this is all a step in the shallow end, but there is a reason I want you to know. Among the two of us, Stan and I, it's me who’s the cynical bastard. But for once, the roles seem to be reversed. He has trouble believing in you, and after I received your mail, I have no doubt in what you can do.
I spoke to him, like you asked, and he told me about your dilemma. After my activities, I can say with full confidence in myself that I sympathize with you. I realize that it may make you angry that he told me and that I sympathize, but leave the cynics to me, dear.
I would like to try and provide some rationale, whether you believe it’s because I truly care about you or otherwise - being you think I want to cover my ass. When we first corresponded, I was skeptical about many things, and just like you asked me not to, I told these things to Stan. I understand that this was fully against your intentions. But here’s my justification: Last night, Stan and I went to a bar to talk about your mail and what we’ve experienced because of it. Down the bar, on a stool, was a very familiar looking face of a man that neither of us had ever met. I’m sure you get that sometimes - you are tormented by the other worldly familiarity of someone that you can’t quite put your finger on.
Anyway, this man approached us with a cautious swagger and when he arrived at our section of the bar, he leaned quietly on the counter right of Stan. He told us, very calmly, that we were involved in something that we could never comprehend. That was the moment that I believe we both realized just who he was.
I’ll put it like this.
“If you gaze long into an abyss, the abyss will sometimes gaze back at you.” One of the greatest men to ever live said that.
I need to sleep. After Sara and Alex, sleeping has become somewhat of a chore. A science even. I want you to know that I want to kill him, whoever he is, and if I find him, I expect you, and Stan, and Alex to help me. I expect you to enjoy his suffering by my will.
If you care, Sara is okay. I’ll return your mail shortly.
Sincerely,
Timothy Booth