Guava 30, FOTD: Letters to Heaven
Title: Letters to Heaven
Main Story: In the Heart
Flavors, Toppings, Extras: FOTD (plangent: expressing sadness; plaintive), guava 30 (you were lost and gone forever), malt (taram_42's birthday prompt: A picture of this: A mail box on the shore of the lake but in the water. No house in sight.), pocky chain, whipped cream (Jake is nineish in the first bunch), cherry (for epistolary format).
Word Count: 1042
Rating: PG-13.
WARNING: Some suicidal implications.
Summary: Jake, learning to heal.
Notes: A ghost story, in my own way. I'm not 100% happy with this, so constructive criticism would be more than usually welcome. Refers to Fire.
They moved Jake to a new foster home after, his hand swathed in bandages and his belongings in a garbage bag. He didn't know why, but at the same time he didn't much care.
He knew his new foster mother watched him with worried eyes, while his hand healed and the bandages came off. He didn't much care about that, either. He didn't much care about anything, these days, sleepwalking through them, doing as he was told. He'd promised himself, lying in a strange bed that first night, that he would never care again.
It hurt so much to care.
--
"Jake," his foster mother said one day. "Will you walk with me? There's something I want to show you."
He shrugged one shoulder. He didn't talk much. He had nothing to say.
She walked him through the woods behind her house, to the shores of a lake he hadn't known existed. A mailbox stood in the shallows, leaning crookedly to one side, no house in sight.
"It's a mailbox for heaven," she said. "You can write letters to your family and leave them here. They'll get them. Maybe they'll write back."
Jake stared at it. "Oh," he said. "How strange."
--
He didn't really believe her, about heaven or mailboxes or any of it. But it would make her happy if he tried, so he sat down and stared at the paper for a bit, and then wrote:
Dear Mom,
It didn't seem enough, so after a moment he added:
and Dad and Ammie and Laure,
He tried to think of something to say to them, assuming they'd ever get this. Something that would make everyone stop worrying and leave him alone.
He couldn't think of anything like that, so in the end he only wrote:
I miss you every day.
--
He went with his foster mother to the mailbox the day after he'd written that letter, and to his astonishment there was something in the box, a white envelope with a golden stamp that he'd never, ever seen before.
"It's for you," his foster mother said, and handed him the envelope. It did have his name written across the front, Jacob Foster in an elegant script, and a lipstick kiss-print on the back, across the flap.
His mother had always sealed letters that way. Sealed with a kiss, she'd said. So they know I love them.
He took the letter.
--
Dear Jake, (it read)
We miss you too, darling! Every day. Still, love, you have to be brave. We don't want you coming up here too soon.
There was more, but those opening lines stuck with him. They didn't want him with them? Why not? He wanted to be with them. If they missed him so much, shouldn't they want him to be with them too? Heaven was... well, heaven, after all.
He stared at the letter for a while.
Did they just not love him anymore?
Why don't you want me with you? he wrote. I'm afraid without you.
--
Dear Jake, said the next one, this time in Lauren's scrawl,
It's kind of boring up here. I mean, not bad boring, but you don't get to change ever or to grow up or ANYTHING. I get to be seven years old FOREVER. It kind of sucks isn't fun.
Mom made me cross that out.
Anyway, we miss you bunches but you have to grow up so I can live-- the handwriting changed, to Ammie's careful cursive-- vicariously-- back to scrawl-- through you, okay? You have to promise.
Love you, stupidface!
I better send this quick before Mom sees that.
--
Dear Laure, Jake's next letter read, and Ammie and Mom and Dad--
I promise.
Love, Jake.
--
His foster mother smiled as she watched him send that letter, and not for the first time Jake wondered how much she knew. He still wasn't sure that he really believed that the mailbox went to heaven. Maybe his foster mother was writing them. The handwriting was similar, sometimes.
It didn't matter, though. If she was writing them, then she only wanted him to feel better. If she wasn't... well, then that was a miracle, and you didn't question miracles.
Besides, writing the letters did make him feel better. It helped him remember that caring didn't always have to hurt.
--
He and Olivia went to visit his foster family right after Felicity was born, passing through on their way to see the town where he'd been born. It was surprisingly good to see his foster parents again, to talk to them and tell them all he'd been doing. It felt surprisingly good to have them be proud.
"Do you remember that mailbox?" he asked his foster mother, after dinner. "And the letters from heaven?"
"Yes," she said, and blushed, looking down. "Jake, I have a confession to make..."
"You wrote the letters," he said, and smiled. "I know. Thank you."
--
Before they left the next morning, he and Olivia left Felicity with his foster parents and went out to the lake. The mailbox was still there, still leaning drunkenly to one side, still half-submerged in the shallows.
"Huh," Olivia said, blinking at it. "It's really here."
"I think there must have been a cabin here or something," Jake said, and shrugged. "A long time ago. Before the lake expanded."
"Probably," she agreed, bending to look inside. "That makes more sense than..."
"Than what?" he asked, when she'd been quiet for a minute.
"There's something in here," she said, reaching out.
--
The envelope had his name on it, and a strange golden stamp he'd never seen before, and a lipstick kiss-print over the flap. Sealed with a kiss, just like all the others he'd saved, kept carefully in plastic folders under his bed. Nice of his foster mother, Jake thought, and stuck it in his breast pocket without opening it.
"You didn't have to do this," he said, showing it to her when they'd walked back to collect Felicity.
She stared at the envelope, and then at him, and then said, in a strangled voice, "Jake, I didn't write that one."
--
Dear Jake,
We are so, so very proud of you.
Love forever,
Mom and Dad and Ammie and Laurie
PS: Give Felicity a kiss from us.
Main Story: In the Heart
Flavors, Toppings, Extras: FOTD (plangent: expressing sadness; plaintive), guava 30 (you were lost and gone forever), malt (taram_42's birthday prompt: A picture of this: A mail box on the shore of the lake but in the water. No house in sight.), pocky chain, whipped cream (Jake is nineish in the first bunch), cherry (for epistolary format).
Word Count: 1042
Rating: PG-13.
WARNING: Some suicidal implications.
Summary: Jake, learning to heal.
Notes: A ghost story, in my own way. I'm not 100% happy with this, so constructive criticism would be more than usually welcome. Refers to Fire.
They moved Jake to a new foster home after, his hand swathed in bandages and his belongings in a garbage bag. He didn't know why, but at the same time he didn't much care.
He knew his new foster mother watched him with worried eyes, while his hand healed and the bandages came off. He didn't much care about that, either. He didn't much care about anything, these days, sleepwalking through them, doing as he was told. He'd promised himself, lying in a strange bed that first night, that he would never care again.
It hurt so much to care.
--
"Jake," his foster mother said one day. "Will you walk with me? There's something I want to show you."
He shrugged one shoulder. He didn't talk much. He had nothing to say.
She walked him through the woods behind her house, to the shores of a lake he hadn't known existed. A mailbox stood in the shallows, leaning crookedly to one side, no house in sight.
"It's a mailbox for heaven," she said. "You can write letters to your family and leave them here. They'll get them. Maybe they'll write back."
Jake stared at it. "Oh," he said. "How strange."
--
He didn't really believe her, about heaven or mailboxes or any of it. But it would make her happy if he tried, so he sat down and stared at the paper for a bit, and then wrote:
Dear Mom,
It didn't seem enough, so after a moment he added:
and Dad and Ammie and Laure,
He tried to think of something to say to them, assuming they'd ever get this. Something that would make everyone stop worrying and leave him alone.
He couldn't think of anything like that, so in the end he only wrote:
I miss you every day.
--
He went with his foster mother to the mailbox the day after he'd written that letter, and to his astonishment there was something in the box, a white envelope with a golden stamp that he'd never, ever seen before.
"It's for you," his foster mother said, and handed him the envelope. It did have his name written across the front, Jacob Foster in an elegant script, and a lipstick kiss-print on the back, across the flap.
His mother had always sealed letters that way. Sealed with a kiss, she'd said. So they know I love them.
He took the letter.
--
Dear Jake, (it read)
We miss you too, darling! Every day. Still, love, you have to be brave. We don't want you coming up here too soon.
There was more, but those opening lines stuck with him. They didn't want him with them? Why not? He wanted to be with them. If they missed him so much, shouldn't they want him to be with them too? Heaven was... well, heaven, after all.
He stared at the letter for a while.
Did they just not love him anymore?
Why don't you want me with you? he wrote. I'm afraid without you.
--
Dear Jake, said the next one, this time in Lauren's scrawl,
It's kind of boring up here. I mean, not bad boring, but you don't get to change ever or to grow up or ANYTHING. I get to be seven years old FOREVER. It kind of sucks isn't fun.
Mom made me cross that out.
Anyway, we miss you bunches but you have to grow up so I can live-- the handwriting changed, to Ammie's careful cursive-- vicariously-- back to scrawl-- through you, okay? You have to promise.
Love you, stupidface!
I better send this quick before Mom sees that.
--
Dear Laure, Jake's next letter read, and Ammie and Mom and Dad--
I promise.
Love, Jake.
--
His foster mother smiled as she watched him send that letter, and not for the first time Jake wondered how much she knew. He still wasn't sure that he really believed that the mailbox went to heaven. Maybe his foster mother was writing them. The handwriting was similar, sometimes.
It didn't matter, though. If she was writing them, then she only wanted him to feel better. If she wasn't... well, then that was a miracle, and you didn't question miracles.
Besides, writing the letters did make him feel better. It helped him remember that caring didn't always have to hurt.
--
He and Olivia went to visit his foster family right after Felicity was born, passing through on their way to see the town where he'd been born. It was surprisingly good to see his foster parents again, to talk to them and tell them all he'd been doing. It felt surprisingly good to have them be proud.
"Do you remember that mailbox?" he asked his foster mother, after dinner. "And the letters from heaven?"
"Yes," she said, and blushed, looking down. "Jake, I have a confession to make..."
"You wrote the letters," he said, and smiled. "I know. Thank you."
--
Before they left the next morning, he and Olivia left Felicity with his foster parents and went out to the lake. The mailbox was still there, still leaning drunkenly to one side, still half-submerged in the shallows.
"Huh," Olivia said, blinking at it. "It's really here."
"I think there must have been a cabin here or something," Jake said, and shrugged. "A long time ago. Before the lake expanded."
"Probably," she agreed, bending to look inside. "That makes more sense than..."
"Than what?" he asked, when she'd been quiet for a minute.
"There's something in here," she said, reaching out.
--
The envelope had his name on it, and a strange golden stamp he'd never seen before, and a lipstick kiss-print over the flap. Sealed with a kiss, just like all the others he'd saved, kept carefully in plastic folders under his bed. Nice of his foster mother, Jake thought, and stuck it in his breast pocket without opening it.
"You didn't have to do this," he said, showing it to her when they'd walked back to collect Felicity.
She stared at the envelope, and then at him, and then said, in a strangled voice, "Jake, I didn't write that one."
--
Dear Jake,
We are so, so very proud of you.
Love forever,
Mom and Dad and Ammie and Laurie
PS: Give Felicity a kiss from us.