Letters

As odd as it was to pass through bodies and solid objects, it was just as disturbing to blink her eyes and find that big chunks of time would fly by. The minute hand of the clock on the bedside table would make its way around the sixty-second circle, but only when her eyelids were closed. The bashful timekeeper would make leaps of twenty or forty minutes, and as Amy lay on the bed within the other sleeping Amy, she made a game of trying to catch the long hand move.

Blinking quickly would make the minute hand race around the dial, and conversely, slow blinking made it crawl. Eleven thirty-five held a special meaning; a significant place in time and space although she wasn't sure why—just that it was. She began a rapid succession of flickering eyelids moving the clock closer to that time. When the short hand was equally between the ten and eleven, fear began to rise up insider her and she stopped blinking.

"The letter," she thought. Her mother would deliver "the" letter to her bedside table at precisely eleven thirty-five. Somehow her mind had screwed up the sequence of things. 'That's why I couldn't remember the letter at Ronda's—I hadn't read it yet.' At ten thirty, she knew it was coming—but that was all. She batted her eyelids in a furious flutter and time advanced to eleven fifteen. There wasn't much more to remember than she had already been able to figure out for herself. It was from Ronda and it had something to do with the prior evening. Amy advanced time and space to eleven thirty-five.

36.

There was a timid knock at the door.

"Amy? You awake honey?" said the wonderful soft voice of her mother.

Amy wanted to separate from her prison-like confinement. She pulled and pushed and kicked...

"Wake up!" Amy yelled at the sleeping Amy.

The door slowly creaked open and there was another knock before her head appeared.

"Honey?"

There was no response from the sleeping Amy.

"Honey," she said again but this time gave Amy's shoulder a nudge.

The groggy, eighteen year-old looked up to her mother and said, "Yes—what's the matter?"

"I found "this" in the mailbox a few minutes ago," and she handed a sealed envelope to her.

Amy tried to understand what he mother was saying, but the effects of the alcohol from several hours earlier, had left her in a bit of a hung-over fog.

"Ah, isn't that were the mailman is supposed to put them?"

"Amy," her mother said, now inflecting a tone of impatience in her voice. "Look at it—there's no address, return address or stamp."

She sat up in bed and wiped ten or eleven hours of hardened gunk from her eyes, and squinted until the writing on the letter came into focus. There were only two words written on the letter. Amy, and Personal. Personal was about three times the size of her name, and followed by an exclamation point. She recognized the handwriting.

"Oh, it's from Ronda—we had a fight last night."

"She's never done this before, is she all right? Do you want to talk about it," her mother said as she sat down on the edge of the bed.

"I'm afraid I said some mean things to her last night."

"I know."

"You know—how?"

"I got a call this morning—Mrs. Langston."

"Shit," Amy muttered. "Sorry, I didn't mean to say that. I—I don't think I can talk to you about this."

"Well I'll be here all day—so..."

"I know."

Part two: The Letter

1.

"Dearest Amy,

I know you hate me now, and I've lost the most important person in my life, but I must tell you that I never meant to hurt you. How could I, I'm in love with you. Leave it to me, your old pal Ronda, to fuck up a life long friendship. If I could take it back, I would. It's just that you seemed to like what I was doing and one thing just led to another.

I also realize that I made another dumb-ass mistake. I talked to Mrs. Langston, but I was hysterical, you know how I get. God, how could I have been so stupid. It seems I'm doing a lot of stupid things these days. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me. Please tell your parents that I love them, and will miss them too.

Sweet poison. I meant it when I said it. When I kissed your lips, I almost died right there on the spot. They are at least as addictive as any drug I could take and will kill me in the end, but I can't help it. I did try to talk to my mother about it, but it embarrassed her I think. All she could say was, I would get over it. I wish I had a mother like yours; she at least will listen to ya and take it seriously.

None of this, of course, is your fault, and I don't want you to think that I blame you for what I'm about to do. This is why I have left this note with you. I want you to read it first, to explain to you that it is NOT your fault. I am a lesbian. There I said it. I don't want to be, but I have known it for years. Your mother knows it, but I made her swear never to tell you. Like I said before, you have a great mother and she never made me feel like some sort of outcast or depraved animal. Now everyone will know, and I don't think I can face them.

By the time you read this, I will be dead. I'm so sorry that I put you through the humiliation of my advances and I'm also sorry to anyone else that my actions might hurt, my mother especially. Don't cry for me. I'm not afraid to die, and if there is a heaven, it will have a hell of a time competing with the pleasure I felt with you last night.

Goodbye, Sweet Poison, I will always love you.

Your friend,

Ronda."

Amy read the letter quickly at first, her eyes merely scanning and intuition replacing the written words with assumptions. It had started out as what she assumed it would be. An apology, and she would have accepted it. By the time she read the words "sweet poison," she made herself slow down and read every word. She changed her mind about quick forgiveness when she realized Ronda had talked with her mother—and neither had let her in on the secret.

All of her own feelings shattered into thousands of useless, fragmented thoughts; forgotten in an instant when she understood the meaning of the letter. Her skin oozed sweat and every muscle in her body became ready for whatever she would ask them to do, and her heart instantly doubled its pace when she flew off the bed.

The clothes from the night before that still lay in a small pile on the floor were on her body in the time-span of two breaths. Sockless feet were shoved into sneakers and halfway down the stairs in less time that it took to think, 'God, oh dear God, don't let me be too late!'

"MOM! CALL 911! SHE'S GOING TO KILL HERSELF!"

"WHAT? OH DEAR..."

Amy never heard her mother finish the sentence. She ran, and as she did, Amy of the past and Amy of the future began to fuse together into the one and only Amy of the now. She was "one," again.

A large crowed had formed in front of Ronda's house. She could see red flashes of light over their heads and realized that an ambulance and police cruiser were already there. Ronda's mother was at the top of the stairs to her front door; her hands covered her mouth and nose. Even from behind the crowd Amy could see that she was crying. Not just flowing tears, but twitching and jerking as she wept. Large red stains covered the front of her blouse.

A man and a woman dressed in uniforms with what Amy thought were medical patches on there sleeves, were lifting a body into the back of the ambulance. Someone beside her said, "Yeah, she's dead all right."

"NO," Amy shouted. "YOUR WRONG!"

Several people turned and stared at her, and they were mumbling words that she couldn't understand. Amy saw a face she recognized and pushed her way through the crowd.

"Mrs. Langston, is she okay—please tell me Ronda's okay," Amy asked with wide, hopeful eyes.

She turned, "Oh, it's you," she said with obvious distain. "I don't think so. I heard them say she's gone."

"No..." Amy said.

"What was that Amy?" Mrs. Langston asked.

But Amy couldn't answer. She slowly turned to walk away— and stopped. Big, floating, swirling spots appeared before her eyes and her heart seemed confused about what it was supposed to do; beating fast, and then slow with a hard thump. In the last few moments of consciousness, she thought it was strange that the sidewalk seemed to be rising up to her.

2.

Darkness was all around her. She was neither asleep nor awake, but she could think. 'Am I dead?' she thought. There was a distorted echo of a voice that seemed to come from nowhere, it was a male sounding voice but she couldn't understand what it was saying. She tried to say, "Is that you, God," but all that came from her were grunts and slurred pieces of words.

There was a click, and then two clicks.

"Can you hear me now, Amy?"

"Yes," she said, and it surprised her that it sounded like the word yes.

"What day is it?"

"Sun—day. Did—you know—Ron-a is dead?"

"What year is it, Amy?"

"Two..."

There was another click.

What year, Amy?"

"I don't know."

"Think harder, Amy, what year is it?"

"Two thousand—twenty or something—no—that's wrong."

"Good, Amy. Now think again, what year is it."

There were five distinct clicks.

"Two thousand six."

"Very good, Amy, your doing fine."

"I am?"

"Yes. You will hear a click, and when you do, you will wake up. You "will" remember everything that has happened up to now. You will see, and hear everyone around you. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"Click!"

Amy opened her eyes for the first time in three weeks. The first thing she saw was a brightly colored round object hovering in the air, but her vision wasn't clear enough to identify what it was. She tried to raise her hand and rub her eyes but her arms would not move.

"How are you feeling Amy," said the familure male voice.

She heard the voice this time—and even knew the direction it was coming from. She turned her head and could see the outline of a face and head.

"I think I'm blind, and I can't move my arms—and my head hurts."

"That will all go away Amy, you have been asleep for a while."

There was a tug on her left wrist—and then her right. She was able to lift her arms, but they felt heavy.

"Where's John?"

"I'm here, beside you."

Amy looked at the fuzzy image that sat beside her. "Your not my husband."

"That's true. My name is Dr. Jon. What is you husbands name?"

"John."

"What's his full name?"

"John..."

"How old are you?"

"Twenty-eight, or thirty, I'm not sure."

"And what year were you born?"

"Nineteen eighty-eight."

"And what year is it?"

"Two thousand six"

"I know it's hard for you, but I want you to tell me your age again—this time, before you answer, count the years between your birth and this year."

"Doctor, do we really..."

Dr. Jon put one finger to his mouth to quiet the woman beside him.

"Mom?"

Dr. Jon gave his reluctant approval. She stood and put her wet face against Amy's and kissed her cheek.

"MOM! Mom—Ronda's dead—and I killed her," Amy said as she began to cry as well.

The two women hugged and wept in an embrace. Dr. Jon had timed everything so well, and his new version of sleeping hypnoses had worked flawlessly, but now the mother of his patient threatened to send her back into her delusions. He put his hand on her shoulder and gently pulled her away from her daughter.

"Please—please, we have work to do. I 'must' ask you to be quiet."

"Mom—please don't go—I need you."

Dr. Jon put his hand on her shoulder and said, "She isn't leaving Amy—I promise, but you want to get well—don't you?"

"I don't deserve to get well—I murdered my friend."

The last thing Dr. Jon wanted to do was confront that issue, not yet, she wasn't ready. The shock of the truth could do more harm than good.

"Amy, I need you to answer my question."

Dr. Jon waited for her answer, but she was drifting away.

"Amy—are you still with us?"

His voice startled her and she nodded her head.

"How old are you?"

He could see it in her face. She had done the math and she knew the answer.

"Eighteen—but how can that be, I live with my..."

Amy's vision had improved and she could now see that the object over her bed was a balloon, tied to her bed. It began to spin, slowly at first, and then faster and faster—it spun so fast that it became a blur and the room grew darker...

Dr. Jon shook her arm and said, "Amy, look at me." Her eyes drifted towards Dr. Jon, and as they reached the limits of their sockets, they seemed to drag her head with them. "Stay with me, you are eighteen years old. Say it!"

"Eighteen—I'm..."

"Go ahead," his voice now softer. "Say it."

"I'm eighteen."

"Do you believe it?"

"No."

"Why not? You know what year it is—and the date of your birth?"

"Because—I thought Ronda had been married to a fucking geek—and now—I know I killed her. I thought I knew a lot of things—I don't "know" what's real—are you real?"

"Yes," he answered.

Dr. Jon changed his mind about Ronda. It was a gamble, but if he didn't do something...

He took her hand and squeezed it between both of his. "Amy."

She didn't answer, but her eyes remained fixed on him.

"This is real, now is real, you must try to believe that."

Her eyes were glazing over and he was losing her. It was if he were watching her die.

"Ronda's not dead!" he said in a loud, firm voice.

3.

"—What?"

"Ronda did "not" die. She is here, in the hospital."

Amy's face went red; her eyes darted from side to side, and then focused on him again.

"I—I don't believe you."

"It's true, Amy."

She studied his face and then called out to her mother, "Mom—mom, is it true—is he telling the truth—oh God let it be true—mom—MOM!"

Her mother stood up and pushed the doctor aside. He began to protest, but reluctantly moved out of her way. She held Amy's face in her hands and kissed her forehead.

"Yes baby—it's true. They wouldn't let me tell you till they thought you could handle it—but it 'is' true."

Amy tried to sit up; her arms pushed against the bed and her body would rise, but fall back to the bed.

"I must—go to—her," she said between gasps for air; her body weakened by weeks of muscular atrophy.

Dr. Jon pulled Amy's mother away from her and whispered in something in her ear. She hurried to the door and left the room. It was then that Amy noticed the small window in the door. 'That was the window in my kitchen—the one that...'

"She will be right back Amy," Dr. Jon said when he notice she was staring at the door.

"The window—someone was watching me through that window."

"I'm sure, a lot of people are interested in you welfare."

Amy's face glowed crimson as she thought about the things she did while she was being watched. "What was I doing while..." She decided she didn't wan to know.

"What was that Amy?"

"Nothing," she said shaking her head. Where did mom go?"

As Amy asked about her mother, the door opened and she came back into the room and stood by the wall. She held her hands at chest level, and her fingers where intertwined—as if she were praying. The squeak of the door hinge brought Amy's attention back to the door; it had opened just enough to permit the head of the person behind it to peek in.

"Hello?"

"RONDA! RONDA!" Amy screamed and pushed herself to the edge of the bed. She would have gone headfirst to the floor if Dr. Jon hadn't caught her.

Ronda's eyes squinted and her stomach knotted into a painful contraction. She began to back out...

"RONDA! COME BACK!" She said with one arm around Dr. Jon and the other reaching out to Ronda.

Ronda looked around the door at Amy, who at first seemed to be yelling at her in anger, now begged her to come.

'This must be what if feels when you know your going to die,' Amy thought, as Ronda took Amy's hand. Her whole life with Ronda blazed through her brain; the baths they took together as children, birthday parties, late weekend nights watching old movies and— holding hands when one of them was in trouble.

That was the best thing. Holding hands, and as she thought of it, they held each other's hands again. The warm flesh against warm flesh seemed so real. Ronda's wet cheek against hers shouted reality, but there was still that sliver of fear lurking in the back of her mind; waiting to pounce like the famous black cat of ill luck disguised in the form of a new voice, claming to be the real reality.

Part 3: Six months later

1.

Their lover's bed was strewn with sheets half on and half off, their bodies consummating the deal between them. Amy's legs were high in the air and spread wide, and the dildo was strapped to Ronda's groin. Amy pushed Ronda's fleshy buttocks to the rhythm her body demanded.

Amy's breath blasted from her mouth, and caused Ronda's hair to fly out from the side of her head, and then fall back to her face as she took air in. It was an orgasm that seized her body like no other she had had before. Like an intricate jazz composition, her vaginal muscles squeezed the invading phallus in a counterpoint that drove her climax to its peek.

Ronda's pleasure was driven by Amy. She watched her face as it morphed into different shapes; her eyebrows almost touching in the space just above her nose when she would utter the most feminine of sounds that translated into "I love you," within Ronda's mind. Amy's tongue licked her own lips and her breath—her breath smelled so sweet as Ronda inhaled every exhale that came from her mouth. It could have been mistaken for a kiss, but their lips barely touched as they took turns sharing the same air.

Amy's legs scissored and locked around Ronda's ass. Every muscle flexed and pulled at every bone and tendon in her body, and even her heart paused mid-beat—and then started again with a powerful thump when Amy's orgasm answered its own question and released her from its grip. Her chest rose and fell rapidly as she tried to satisfy her need for oxygen and she gave Ronda a gentle push. The mammoth rubber cock strapped to Ronda, slid from the wet, fleshy folds deep within Amy, and then Ronda rolled to her side and snuggled up to her new lover.

"Wow—that—was..." Amy said between breaths, but decided she couldn't finish just yet.

Ronda kissed her cheek, "it's okay Sweet P, just relax."

Amy's new nickname was fine when they were alone, but it bothered her when Ronda would call her that in public, and as fate would have its own way, it had stuck, and now "everyone" called her by that name. Of course no one knew what the "P" stood for, and when asked, Ronda would just say, "ark, ark, ark, I yam what I yam," and let them draw their own conclusion.

"I love you, Sweet P," Ronda said as she brushed the hair from Amy's face.

Amy answered with a deep kiss and while their tongues dueled within Ronda's mouth, Amy moved Ronda onto her back and straddled her at waist level; the dildo trapped between her legs. She wanted to give Ronda what she had received. Their lips separated and Amy stared down into Ronda's eyes.

"I love you, too."

For now the war within her was subdued, and all that was important was Ronda's pleasure. Amy kissed her cheek, her neck, and then between her breast. Both nipples were erect and she took one in her mouth sucking and nibbling on it. She slid back and her butt fell between Ronda's legs and for a moment, she was unable to move further back. After a brief massage of Ronda's vulva with her own, she rolled over and crawled on her stomach between Ronda's legs.

It was at that moment that it occurred to her that she hadn't a clue as to what to do. Ronda pulled up her feet so that they were flat on the bed and then let her knees fall to the side. Amy had never seen a pussy before, even her own was out of view. If she spread her legs, as she sometimes did while taking a bath, and looked down, it still didn't prepare her for what she could see now.