Mr A Heimers
You thief! You scoundrel! You two-faced rogue!
I understand that addressing you so, must be quite shocking to your constitution. I assure you that I know full well that I am straying from common decency, but you, sir, do not deserve common decency and therefore, I forewarn you not to expect this letter to be filled with politeness. You have stolen something of immense value which does not belong to you. For she, he, they, do not belong to you.
I confess and you may shake your head with despondence to find that I at first attempted, somewhat desperately, to deny your presence by anxiously and resolutely holding onto the belief that there must be some other explanation, a kinder explanation, an anything-but-you explanation. Merely old age perhaps? I could not, however, be so blind as not to see your long, bony fingers starting to creep into her mind.
"Do you know that Jane has a most delicate collection of teapots?"
"Do you know that Jane has a most delicate collection of teapots?"
"My dear, have I told you that Jane has a most delicate collection of teapots?"
Yes, I knew that Jane had a most delicate collection of teapots.
One by one your fingers seeped deeper into her very being as piece by piece you stole everything that she once held dear.
Me. She once held me dear.
You are merciless, conniving and unpredictable. You may perceive these sentiments to be a compliment, but I assure you they are not. You choose whose lives you are going to violently disrupt by the mere throw of your dice and with the same nonchalant state of mind you pick your technique. For some of your victims you quickly, greedily snatch all that you can take, leaving nothing behind but a shell of the person they used to be, wandering aimlessly. For others, you prefer to play an often slow game of give-and-take. You do not merely lay claim to everything. Oh no, you leave your victims with moments of clarity, where recognition from within their eyes was once lost, it shines brightly once more. These moments may last minutes, hours, days, whatever the period may be it is always enough to give us hope, hope and relief that you can then once more snatch away by the mere snap of your fingers. Whichever method you choose for you poor, unknowing victim, the end-result remains constant: you rip away the puzzle pieces, the building blocks, of their memories until nothing remains but an unrecognisable, distorted picture which they desperately, oh so desperately, try to put back together again, always failing. Perhaps that is what makes you particularly dangerous: once your presence is perceived, everything else just becomes unknown. Those of us left on the outskirts can merely sit and watch you play your malicious game, wondering what your next move will be. Wondering when our next moments of hope will occur and when you will deem it convenient to snatch them away.
I cannot help but ask: what gives you the right? Who has given you the pencil of life to erase and draw as you please? What have we ever done to you to disserve such treatment? I fear you will not stoop so low as to honour me with an answer. Perhaps, the answer is the most rudimental: you simply do, because you can and you can because there is no one nor any object that is capable of deterring you from doing so.
Simply taking their memories does not appear to always satisfy your monstrous appetite for cruelty. You cannot simply take their minds; you must warp it also. You fill their thoughts with paranoia, strip them of their confidence, leave them running into the arms of Terror, having them believe that they are alone: a burden. The woman I knew, I know, never understood the meaning of hatred or meanness and yet there she sits spewing hurtful words of accusation. How could I have abandoned her? I, who have used all my energy tirelessly, alone, to bring her every comfort and every smile possible. I know you are the master behind the drawstrings, meticulously placing each word on the tip of her tongue, but that knowledge is unable to deter the bitterness rising or the reproachful words from being uttered. Once more she becomes the victim, however, now, you have created a new guilty party: me.
And we, the loved ones? What remains of us? Are we mere disposable pieces in your never-ceasing pastime or helpless bystanders? Perhaps, we are both. We feel their pain. Our heart breaks and bleeds, seeping to every inch of our bodies, until such time as we are filled with nothing but a paralysing heaviness, as we see their fear, their anxiety, their shame and their solitude. We grieve as they grieve for the person they once were in a bygone time. We do not only feel their pain but the sharp bite of our own. We have unwittingly been thrust with the responsibility of someone else's life. No, not just anybody, but someone we love immensely who is now in dire need. We question all that we say and all that we do. With every lost thought, we become more and more paranoid. Are those your creeping fingertips, finally coming for me also? We carry the weight of so much loss. We fight a seemingly unwinnable battle, often faltering. Oh and how we falter! How could we not? Are we truly so wrong for wanting them? For needing them? How could I not need her? The her, the normal her, who remembers. The her who is capable of taking care of me, like she did so many times before. Now, it is my time to look after her and although I do so very willingly, after all that she has done for me, I cannot but help, at times, to be weighed down by the immense weight of the unfairness of it all. At times even Death appears to be more capable of compassion. He, at least, has given us the gift of grief. But you have not graced us with even this. For how does one grieve for those still breathing? All that remains is the journey of the longest goodbye.
Despite all that you have done, her wit and her selflessness have proven to be too much for even you to steal away. Perhaps that is why she has been able to fool so many others into believing that she remains untouched. Unfortunately, I am no fool. Yes, this facade has spared us the secretive, fleeting looks of pity, but in their stead, we are faced with the booming questioning, disapproving stares: "She is not so bad?" What they truly mean to say is: "Your pain must surely be exaggerated?" You have ensured that it is only those who love her the most that can truly see your influence. We do now not only have to battle against the sadness and the anger but also against the ignorance of those who do not understand and who never will understand.
I want to yell and rave and tear at my hair, but I will be dignified. It is what society expects and one does not readily defy society's expectations. I know in any case that my words would fall short of reaching your ears. This letter will just have to do. You have committed numerous heinous crimes against humanity. You have left nothing but destruction in your wake, to such a magnitude as only War could be proud of. You are wicked, exceedingly sinister and full of malice. I know that there is nothing that can be said or done to persuade you to stop this madness or puncture your resolve. Perhaps I am being too harsh, perhaps you are simply being. Perhaps there are moments where you feel something akin to sympathy for your victims. Perhaps I am merely one of those buffoons who simply cannot concede that something as vile as you could do what you do and feel nothing.
I leave you with this thought. Yes, I know that you will probably believe it to be false, but I assure you that it is not. You see, you will not win. We, the loved ones, will keep fighting, with all the power that we can muster. We will fight for them to remember just how loved they are. For she is truly, truly loved. Every memory that you take, we will fill the space with a moment of joy and should you decide to steal that moment too, we will create another. We will never cease to love and for that reason, sir, you will be defeated. I must believe, that you will be defeated.
Not so warm regards
AEP.