If you agree to this, write me back. If you don’t agree, still write me back. I want to know your thoughts. I confess that I am hungry for your words.
Love,
Kitt
Dear Kitt,
Your words have moved me, deeply. I also hunger for them, for you, and feel as if I could devour tomes of your writing and never be satiated. These letters will hold me over until we meet again.
We aren’t keeping tally, but your courage and your wit have kept you alive in a place where hearts have faltered and beat their last. You are the bravest person I know, Kitt.
And I do agree to what you ask, but only because you seem to have stolen the words from my mouth. You are in a precarious position—far more than me—and giving up Dacre’s movements and tactics is something I dread to ask you to do, even as it feels inevitable. It seems like this is the road we were destined to travel, you and I, given our typewriters and where we are. But I want, more than anything, to keep you safe. To protect you as best I can from afar.
Whatever information you come across that you want to provide, you can send it to me if you promise to be careful in return. That you will destroy all my letters as soon as you read them, so they cannot be traced to you. Perhaps you and I can help shorten this war, or at least dare to change the course of the tides. Or maybe that is too much to hope for. But I find that I am leaning more on the side of impossibility these days. I am leaning toward the edge of magic.
Love,
Iris
P.S. I noticed there was an asterisk by the word “outshine” in your previous letter. A typo?
My Dear Iris,
Agreed. Let us dare to change the tides. Write to me and fill my empty spaces.
Love,
Kitt
P.S. A typo? No, Winnow. I simply forgot to add a footnote, which should have read as:
*outshine: transitive verb
a. to shine brighter than
b. to excel in splendor or showiness
You remember how you said that word to me in the infirmary, post-trenches? You believed I had come to the Bluff to outshine you. And I would speak this word back to you now, but only because I would love to see you burn with splendor.
I would love to see your words catch fire with mine.
{26}
Tell Me of Iris E. Winnow
The pain and discomfort of Roman’s wounds had fully returned with his memories.
He thought about what this meant when he was lying in bed, staring into the darkness and struggling to breathe. When he was nauseous at the dinner table, eating meals with the officers, forcing himself to swallow down the food. When he was at his desk, fighting a dull throb at his temples as he typed propaganda for Dacre. When he had a moment alone in the night, and he would sit at his typewriter and try to make sense of what he was experiencing.
Dacre claims he healed me that day in the Bluff. He claims that I could live forever at his side, if only I remain faithful to him. And yet my memories suggest otherwise, and what I’m feeling in my body is a testament that I’m not fully mended.
He healed me just enough to be of use to him, as if covering my wounds with a bandage, holding things together. To make me numb and to forget what brought me here. But now that I remember who I was before … it seems his magic has lost a few threads of its power.
He has deceived me, as well as so many others, by making us believe we are whole and mended when he has intentionally left pieces of us broken so we remain close to his side. Submissive and obedient to what he wants.
Roman would type his thoughts but wouldn’t let them survive on the paper. He yanked them from the typewriter and watched them catch fire with a match.
But his new reality was often at the forefront of his mind.
He wondered what this meant for him in the days to come, the years to come. If he survived this war, then how long would he truly have to live? How much damage had the gas done to him, and was it something he could manage with proper medical treatment?
Roman pushed those uncertainties aside as he ascended the metal stairs, typewriter case in hand. He was almost to Dacre’s office, ready to report for the day’s duty, and he could feel the shortness of breath again, the throb in his temples. It typically happened when he had to climb the stairwell, and he took his time, careful to hide his limp and give himself moments to take deep breaths.
At last, he reached the top floor. He wiped the perspiration from his brow and stepped into the office.
Dacre was alone, staring out the windows. But Roman could instantly tell something was off. His ears popped as he felt pressure in the air, like a storm was brewing.
“I’m here to write the next article, sir,” Roman said, pausing by the desk. “Unless you’d like me to come back later?”