Dear _____ ,

Although you've never once replied to any of these letters, I feel as though I'm finally getting to know you better.

You're not like Clyde, since you don't judge me for writing these. You're not like my mum - you don't fuss and apologise all the time. I think it would give me comfort if I imagined you as being Sara, kind and understanding and supportive and willing, but I wouldn't want to offend you, so I won't give you a name.

You're not a narcissist and you don't tease me over a photograph of an awful haircut I had four years ago, and you don't tell me that I have problems, or you don't act like the mirror and constantly tell me that my eyes are different colours.

You don't remind me of my flaws, and I like that about you.

Perhaps, in time, you will let me call you a friend.

Love Always,

Felix

***

Dear ____ ,

We worked on our shooting today, and I wasn't bad at it. I hit most of my targets and it gave me great satisfaction whenever one of my bullets embedded itself into one of the large mannequins strewn about the shooting range. I don't know wether I'll feel the same satisfaction whenever one of my bullets sinks into living, breathing flesh. I wonder if there'll be a blood splatter. And if so, what colour blood would it be? I've always thought of the Things as having black, black blood. 

Sometimes I wonder why blood is so red, so vibrant, so hauntingly aesthetic.

Zuandro is acting as though he can't trust me, as though he's having doubts about wether I'll make it to the final round or not. All of this feels like a test. And I'm constantly on edge about it, constantly thinking about what would happen should I fail - would Mum be happy to have me back? Would Dad be disappointed?

It's frustrating, having two people that you care for in your life that couldn't be less alike.

Sometimes I wish Mum and Dad had never met and that my parents were two people that I cared about and two people that just looked right together. Just that. I wish they hadn't started arguing.

It's so difficult to please one without disappoining the other.

Hopefully Zuandro will help to shape me into a better person.

I've done some terrible things, and all those terrible things have made me brittle in the inside, in need of protection from everything - including Zuandro's fist.

I've seen it at night, in the soft glow of our dorm, I've seen him sleep- and the first time I saw him, I wanted to reach down from the bunk I slept on and comb my fingers through his hair, because he just looked so... fragile. Just like me.

His knuckles are a masterpiece. They're thick strokes of blue and purple and mauve and red, of every shade imaginable, every burst capillary, every skin scrape a portrait of a million things. I'd tell you that his knuckles look like a Monet, an impressionistic painting, but then again, the only time I'd ever seen a Monet was when I was very little, and Dad took me to this great, white art gallery. He had told me a story of how he used to come here as a kid, and then sit on a bench outside the building, and he'd just sit there for hours and hours, watching the sky, and not one person would ever disturb him.

Solace. That was what he got from it.

Before Mum and Dad split up and after my therapy got a bit better, I used to go there too, and seek what my dad sought as a teenager. Just a bit of calmness. But everything was always going by so, so quickly - people were everywhere.

I never found what I was looking for, and I remember just sitting there on that bench with my shoes nealty aligned on the ground and my toes in the grass, looking at a tree that was probably much shorter when my dad looked at it.

Zuandro hasn't told me much about himself yet, although he did tell me that he used to play the violin before he was put into the final stage of his training and had to drop it, because his schedule wouldn't allow time for the violin.

I told him that was sad, but he shrugged it off.

He hasn't asked me about myself yet, so I haven't told him anything. I haven't breathed a word about my therapist, or about Mum and Dad, or about how Mum worries so much and how I'm scared that she's crying too much at home.

I hope her boyfriend is a good man. It still bothers me that I haven't met him yet.

And Sara, dear Sara! Hopefully she's taking good care of Mum. I miss her. I miss the way she used to sing to me when I couldn't sleep. She used to sing to me and it made me feel like a child of seven years, but in a good way.

Today I spent a lot of time thinking about everybody at home. Every single time Zuandro's fist slammed into me, I reminded myself of how lucky I am, how privileged I am to simply be here. Every insult, every order to improve was a reminder of privilege. And I'm not saying that as a gay kid whose never been kissed before, and who feels fortunate to have a hot partner.

No. I feel privileged because I am of an institutional rank.

I will become a Guardian, that I can promise you. I will. I'll become a thorn, and nothing, absolutely nothing, will stand in my way. Not even Zuandro's physique.

I have one week. One single week, a sliver of my life, to prove myself. So, I had best make this week count.

I promise to keep you updated, even though there's a great likelihood that you don't want to hear about Zuandro and my problems and my goldfish Clyde and everything else.

Thank you for listening anyways.

Yours, ever faithfully,

Felix