Melanie’s Memoranda (hah! As if I’ll be using this again any time soon! Alliteration is fun, though, and it flows so well off the tongue.)
Somewhere beyond Chicago
Do I call you diary?
I don’t think so. You’re not exactly part of a leather bound ‘ladies journal’ are you?
I don’t know why I’m writing this, only that I can’t sleep. Between the pain running through my body like a herd of wild beasts and my travelling companion’s snoring, it’s a wonder I can even think straight.
Applesauce, but this hurts. I never noticed how difficult it is to write without a left hand. Imagine, the hand that I don’t use for anything other than menial every day tasks actually being useful for something important. But, I don’t have a spare, so, there it is.
They’re all in my closet.
Silly me. I bring all my clothes but no spare arm.
It’s late and the doctor who saw me earlier this afternoon’s drugs are wearing off. I’m loopy and my stomach is doing funny things that aren’t exactly pleasant all the way around. I need to go home and talk to George. He’ll be able to help me.
In more than one way, I think.
The snow is nice outside. It’s blinding, like we’re running through a storm, but pretty all the same. It’s been years since I’ve actually seen the stuff. New Orleans doesn’t get much by way of white powder in the winter. At the most we’ll get a few thunderstorms and maybe an angry howl from the wind, but that’s it. Doesn’t make for a ‘white Christmas’ unless one is brave enough to go up to New England for a spell.
I’m too much of a coward and cold-blooded. I prefer the heat to the cold.
Dammit, it’s hard to move without a second arm! The tiny coffin rack this train has to offer isn’t helping my situation.
Will that man ever stop snoring?!
I shouldn’t have looked at the letter. I should have known better, should have kept my big nose out of his business.
“This is yours to deliver to George.” Simon (the lawyer) said, handing me a small, sealed envelope.
My fingers tingled when I touched it. Information, new information that could quite possibly explain this whole insane situation. “Why don’t you just send it to him?” I asked, tucking it into my pocket, trying to give her a way out of my later actions.
Her green eyes stared me down. I remember shifting nervously under that gaze. It was hard, discerning, like she could see into my mind and know exactly what I had planned from the instant that letter touched my hand.
“It is not my place to send it to him. Doctor Reddington was explicit in is orders.”
With women like her, who needs automatons?
It took me forever to get the stupid thing sealed again. I couldn’t help it, though. The lawyer-she really should have known better than to give me anything physical especially anything of any importance. I can’t help myself. George is going to kill me.
But, it’s the way out for both of us. He doesn’t think I know-doesn’t think I keep track of those Shifter Fights he pretends to have nothing to do with. He’s in too deep and I know it, it’s a wonder he has any modicum of sanity left. The fights aren’t helping him. They’re not giving him closure. The alcohol he pays to have smuggled into The Owler-while appreciated-is making him worse.
(Memo: I have to tell Joseph to stop the shipments. This thing needs to end).
This. This letter is his way out.
There’s just, you know, a catch. For both of us.
But, the money. Oh God, the money. It’s more than I can believe-more than what should be legal for any one man to inherit.
There’s just, you know, a catch.
Would it be so bad, though? Not for me. My God, it’s taken everything I have to *not* act like a lovestruck idiot around him, to push him around and pretend that I feel nothing for him.
I just have to convince him he feels the same way about me, without letting on that I read the letter.
Shouldn’t be too difficult.
Can’t write any more. The pain is getting worse. I think I’ll have to find that doctor and see if he can give me something. The train’s slowed down. The snow is falling thicker. I think my journey time has just increased.
Mayhap I will keep a journal.