About the Author

Column Archive










Golem (guest story by Snowmit)
9.3.2002 by Rosemary, every Tuesday.


Yikes. Life got crazy. I won't have personal access to the internet for a while, so I'm not sure when the next story of mine will be up. Therefore, here's some capital-A Awesomeness from Snowmit. (I can't hype this one up enough.)




Jacklyn,

By the time you read this I'll be... Well, I don't know where I'll be. They certainly haven't told me.

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.

I didn't mean for things to turn out this way. I never meant to hurt you. You deserve so much better than this but this is all I can give you. I'm not even supposed to be writing this letter.

Above all else, I want you to know that the love was real. The love is real. I love you madly, as you loved me. But now, I have to go away. Because everything else is lies.

My name is not really Alan Cromwell. At least it wasn't. I feel like it is now.

I didn't grow up in California. I wasn't an only child. I didn't attend Kennedy High. My parents didn't die when I was eighteen. I didn't go to university in Canada. I didn't graduate from Queen's with a degree in International Development Studies. I guess you could say that I travelled around the world for 3 years but it wasn't the way that I told you. Nothing was the way that I told you.

I'm so sorry, Jacklyn.

There was a man named Alan Cromwell. He grew up in California. He was an only child. He attended Kennedy High. His parents died when he was eighteen. He attended university in Canada and graduated from Queen's with a degree in International Development Studies. He then left to travel the world and do some field work. He disappeared while living in Africa.

He was perfect.

When flight AC4526 touched down in Montreal, there was no one waiting at the airport for Alan Cromwell. Why would there be? He didn't know anyone there. He'd only been a few times on weekend drinking trips. And besides, he'd been gone a long time and he hadn't really kept in touch with any of his old friends. He certainly hadn't told anyone that he was returning to North America.

He found an apartment (no small feat, given the housing situation) and a job. He began meeting people and making friends. He came to love the bagels at the bakery just down from his house. He learned a little French. In short, he began a fresh new life with no ties to his old one. I began a fresh new life with no ties to his old one.

He was perfect.

Except that he came back.

He arrived four days ago. I can imagine the scene at Customs. He must have caused quite a stir. How does the system deal with with a person trying to re-enter the country when they're already here? I imagine he was detained, possibly at gunpoint. I wonder how long it took the Agency to detect his return. They pride themselves on a quick response time. He must have had a lot of indignant questions. I'm sure they had ready answers. It was probably all accounted for.

I was fired today. I had no idea why and my boss wouldn't say. I returned home to find an inexplicable eviction notice on my door. I tried to call the landlord but there was no dial tone. It was then that I noticed the pile of envelopes with things like "FINAL NOTICE" stamped on them. Backdated.

They pride themselves on a quick response time.

They found me there on the floor, dead phone in hand. Explained the situation. Told me I had to go. Security. I told them there were some things I had to wrap up. Told them that this was my life they were making me to leave. Told them they owed me that much. They hesitated. In the end, they let me gave me eight hours.

I'm so sorry.

I've known you for four and a half years. Before we met, I'd been living here for around six months. That makes me eight years old.

I guess that means I've loved you most of my life.

And now I have to leave it all behind. Because some idiot-clerk can't tell the difference between a dead person and a missing one. The Agency gives and the Agency takes away. I don't know where they're taking me or what will happen when I get there. They probably won't kill me. I cost a lot of money to make. They can do what they want. I don't have any rights. I'm not even old enough to vote. I don't exist. Alan Cromwell does.

He gets to live. I don't get anything.

Please don't come looking for me.

I love you,

Alan




Disclaimer | Email Us | Dance!
Text, images, design, and our groovy mojo are ©
return to the top of the page