COURIER IN THE BIRD MASK

TRIGGER WARNINGS child death, suicide, abuse, plague, sickness, breakdowns, first person, spouse death, starvation

Day Three

I write letters now. The final words of those dying from the pest. Do you know who I first wrote for, do you want to know? A woman. She’s dead, one foot in the grave as I wrote for her, screaming and crying midway through her story I’m supposed to tell with accuracy… god.

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I don't know how to write this to you. In my delirious fever dreams, I see you. Your face, contorted in horror as you see me as I am. Sick, dying, the skin flaking off my face and my inner organs aflame. I don't know if you'll ever see me again. I see you... I see you in my dreams. So I wait here, wrapped in rags and laying in a hospital bed like I have been for the last six years for me to get better and see you smile again. This incurable illness refuses to kill me— and it forces you to suffer. I’m not talking about the Sand Pest- no, Before I even had the Pest, I was sick. Sick to you, awful to you. I'm so sorry, Pyotr.

I never meant it when I said I hated you and that I never wanted to see you again. I didn't mean it when I said if I got better, I'd leave you. I was scared. I was so, so scared, I didn't want to think that maybe my life was going to end before it started. I love you, I love you more than anything. The way your smile lights up the night, your gentle voice, it’s all I hear and see when I close my eyes.

The doctor said I'd get better, that I'd be able to go home soon. Once Isidor finished the treatment, I'd be able to walk again. I would be able to finally have children with you. Then the Sand Pest hit, oh god Pyotr. The Sand Pest is killing me and I can't even write this, I'm having the Courier do it! The tears running down my cheek sting my cracked skin. It's like every tear is made of flame and acid instead of salt. Pyotr, tell me. Is it too late? Is it too late to apologise for my actions?! To ask for forgiveness? No, it's selfish. It was terrible of me to treat you like I did. Everyday I stare at the wall, the Pest eating me alive as I think of you.

It's been two days, it feels like three years. This is my final day, I can feel it. I don't think you deserve this, to see your wife die pathetically and I understand if you despise me, or are disgusted by my sickness. I'm sorry. I need to tell you this. Goodbye Pyotr. I love you— I'm sorry. I wish I could've given you the wife you deserved. I hope you can find her, the wife that you can love and hold without her crying in pain.

Forever waiting for you, Yana.

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