Alone With All Your Letters

My life was, at best, mundane.

Repetitive to the highest degree, it seemed as though my days could plan themselves out years in advanced, because nothing ever changed. I tried to make things interesting for myself; I tried to meet new people and experience new things. And yet, when I reflected upon my life as I sat in bed at night, nothing was interesting. I was bored out of my mind, hoping for an adventure or a source of excitement. I remember even sinking so low as to hope that a natural disaster would hit my town; maybe then something exciting would happen.

My classes were dull, my friends kind yet uninteresting, and my family was plain. I had a mother, a father, a younger brother, and a pet fish named Napoleon. You could say Napoleon was the most interesting thing I owned – he tended to change colors in the sunlight. Most kids my age, when they’re bored they’ll turn to drugs or alcohol. I don’t want to sound like a hypocrite and say that I’m too good for that kind of thing, because I’m not. I’ve tried every drug under the sun that I could manage to get my hands on: marijuana, prescription drugs, speed. I enjoyed the taste of vodka, and I had learned to shoot whiskey like a pro. But that wasn’t exactly enjoyable for me. High school parties, they’re just a way for hormonal teenagers to show off their ability to drink and not puke. It was all kind of stupid, I guess.

I suppose the other rather interesting thing about my life was my pen pal, Henri. Henri was from Bordeaux, a large city in France where he lived during the year (in the summer, his family retreated to Spain). And as much as I enjoyed reading Henri’s letters (which were written to me in broken English, and responded to in what I believed to be well thought out French) he was a rather slow writer, and it took him months at a time to respond to letters – and that didn’t include the time the mail spent crossing the Atlantic.

Henri sent me a lot of trinkets, a poor way of trying to get me to forgive him whenever he forgot to write me back. Little brass Eifel Towers littered my bedroom, a vintage pin with a silhouette of a marble woman sat on my desk. The gold and black bracelet I received for Christmas was pretty, albeit a bit clunky. He shipped to me some black and white photos of his family members when I sent him some photos of myself. He said he was pleasantly surprised to see that my photos weren’t just close ups of my face; I retorted that if he thought I was that kind of girl, he obviously didn’t know me at all.

For Henri’s birthday, I sent him a silver wristwatch I spent four months of my savings on. He sent me two tattered books he stole from his local library. My friends made fun of me for having a pen pal who was ‘stuck in another dimension’. A world that was full of vintage jewelry and old-fashioned literature. I didn’t mind that, though. Henri could send me all the gifts he wanted, so long as he continued to listen to my letters and respond to them. I told Henri everything, every insignificant detail of my life and the gossip that I was forced to deal with on a daily basis. My letters were pages upon pages in length, while he just sent me a page or so, along with a little gift to make up for it. He sent my little light up stars last month; they were pretty, I’ll admit to that, but nothing beat the feeling of being able to tell someone your problems. The feeling of being able to tell someone your problems, and know that they won’t judge you or betray your trust – that was the best.

I didn’t want to tell him all that, for fear that he would be put off and stop writing me altogether. I didn’t want to let him know that his letters meant more to me than a little French gift, that they were a sign of unwavering friendship. He asked if I took it personally whenever he took longer to write me back, but I told him with an honest response that it wasn’t.

I didn’t take it personally when he didn’t write me back, but when he didn’t write me back, I became a lonely person.