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They make me write letters.
Marcus says it’s a type of exercise to recreate our minds. So we won’t lose focus on what’s outside but also as a reminder it might be the last one we’ve ever written.
I have to pick one person only that will, in the future, receive it.
I debated whether k should pick a family member. Perhaps my mother. It would be my way to vent from all the anger I have inside. Then again, my mother is not oblivious to my feelings. Ever since my divorce from Matthew, I’ve learned to be open, to speak my mind about whatever was bothering me, and for the last couple of weeks, it has worked perfectly.
At last I picked my father. Although half way through the first letter, I realized I had picked the wrong person.
I thought about Cormoran for the first time since being locked. Not that he isn’t on my mind constantly, but denying any connections between us would make this stay easier. I wouldn’t have to miss him–though I’ve only been lying to myself.
This letter would be a perfect opportunity to express my feelings without giving too much away. I believe if I pour my words into this, the weight on my heart would ease. So I grabbed the pen and paper and began scrambling random anecdotes, things I’ve done with the people inside, but it seemed rather impersonal. I couldn't find the right way to start despite having a lot to say. Cormoran deserved much more than random facts about Marcus and his ways.
I grabbed my pen again, threw the used piece of paper away and sigh as I collect my thoughts.
‘Dear C–’
“Who’s C?” I hear a female voice ask from behind. I turned around quickly, glad I hadn’t finished the sentence and would give too much away. The last thing we need was the case to be ruined over a dumb letter.
Catalina stays behind me with a smile on her youthful face. She, like many others, had succumbed to Marcus’ charm. Though her past was much more tragic than mine, having lost both of her parents in a car accident 2 years prior to meeting Marcus, she seemed like a tormented woman with too much burden in her mind and in need of a good friend.
We spoke for hours after my first day, and I felt glad that I was at least welcomed by someone.
“Oh, just a friend,” I replied. Catalina sat on her bed in our small room and waited for me to give her more details. She always wanted to know more about my life and the people in it. “He’s an old friend, very dear to me–I was exercising the ‘be open about your feelings’ part of the rules”
“What’s his name? Surely is not just C,”
I swallow hard before replying. I can’t mention Cormoran’s name, since he’s not unfamiliar to the spotlight and even while being locked in the mansion, everyone had information about the real world. They could have at least heard his name and, at some point, could connect with me. “Cameron. His name is Cameron. "
Catalina smiled. “Tell me about him. Must be someone special if you wrote that to him,”
I look down at the blank paper and I realize I don’t know what to say to him. Should I write to say hello, or take it as a final confession? Something along the lines of whatever it be, might be. “He is–very special. We’ve been friends for years. He knows more about me than myself–”
“And let me guess. You love him?”
The question was deceptively simple. My feelings for Cormoran have been so confusing in the last couple of months. For starters, I have a huge respect for our new found friendship that if I ever say a word, I might ruin it and it’s the last thing I want. That and I’m tired. I’m tired of pretending my heart doesn’t beat like a drum in my ear whenever he so much as walks into a room. Or how many times I’ve fantasized about doing more than surveillance on the back of the Landy.
So given that it was harder to say goodbye to him, rather than my former boyfriend, it is safe so say that yes. My feelings for Cormoran had intensified last year, and though a month ago I was terrified of putting a name to it, now I’m not.
“Yes. I do. I love him,” I replied. The answers seem to have lifted not only my spirit, but the heavy weight on my chest.
“And you think writing a letter would be enough to tell him?” Catalina asked.
“Tell him? I don’t–I don’t know if I’m ready. I mean, we’ve been friends for almost 7 years. I’m up for accepting it myself, but telling him and risking a heart break? No,” I replied.
Catalina gets up from her chair and I watch as she pulls a chair from our shared desk and sits next to me. “Denise–” I flinched at the use of my fake name. "Haven’t you learned anything from Marcus?”
Yes, stay away from those who manipulate for personal gain. Also, don’t trust men who call themselves ‘Master’
“You ought to be more specific–”
Catalina rolls her eyes. “Bottle up feelings cause damage to our souls. How do you expect to go to Paradise if your soul isn’t empty? You have to speak up before the darkness takes you in–whatever the consequences of that confession might be,”
I have heard the craziest analysis of souls and Heaven and how you can specifically ‘get in’ from this so-called ‘Master’. One of those is Catalina’s words on damaged souls, or how you can express your most precious secrets to someone so your soul isn’t clouded when you die. It was the ‘fastest ticket to Paradise’ according to Marcus, which is how he got information on everyone’s weakest spots and they were easier to manipulate.
They made up a life that was enough to call Marcus’ attention. A lie that was enough to appear weak before his eyes, and enough to seek for help.
Even though Catalina’s words were a repetition of the same discourse Marcus had told us, for some reason, resonated with me more than it should. Not about heaven, not about Paradise, but about being truth to ourselves and, for a moment, I questioned my silence.
“What if I’m risking too much? I don’t want to lose what we have.”
“You know the best relationships are those based on friendship first? Maybe you and Cameron are destined to be more, only if you’re willing to give it a try. "
Am I willing to give it a try? To risk everything we’ve worked so hard for, to risk the trust and the friendship of someone I care about so deeply for–love?
Yes. Yes, I am.
I sighed heavily, my heart racing, my brain working fast with words I’m absolutely ready to write. I grabbed the piece of paper again and Catalina patted my back. I turned around briefly towards her, with a soft smile on my face. “I’m going to need a bit of privacy, though. I know Marcus will read it, but I still need a moment for myself”
I asked for privacy, though inside the house we had none. For a second, I had forgotten about the job they assigned me to, about how controlling the group was. The letters we wrote, even for ourselves, were often, if not constantly, read by the Master, which was a way of knowing whether we were speaking more than we should.
So even if Cormoran would never have his hands in this, I’ll pretend it’s real. That he’ll read it while he paced around his small flat, sipping a cup of tea and bewildered at the amount of love it contains.
For a moment, I’ll daydream about this day and hopefully I’ll sleep with a smile on my face.