Freaking ugly brown shades, blurring your vision and reeking of all the pangs of memories.
I hate them. Every single one of them.
But they never seem to get tired of hanging around and I never know where to trash them.
I hate them too much to let them go. I love them enough to hate them.
Argh! They're screwing my brain already. Swaddling me with all the layers of crazy..
There's that one in particular. It just sits there, gaping like it has all my attention. And it does, for my gaze would always find it out with every waking breathe. Then I would spring out of bed and launch at it in blood thirsty obsession, checking, reviewing, clawing over every detail and poking through every letter. Funny all these happens in my head. Only in my head. I am forbidden from ever looking through those letters. A decree I shrouded around myself and, I know thank you, the anxiety is insufferable enough.
The letters... The ones I hate too much to throw away. The ones twisting my brain into all the partitions of screwed. The ones I would never let go off.
The letters from one of these boxes. The boxes I would never unpack, as I do not know when I would move again. Hannah credits me as the most regaled house globetrotters she ever knew.
I'm in my kitchen now. It's cozy and clean but then, I cannot drop the feeling that something is missing. Something is always missing. It was missing in Norway and it's sure as far buried away, somewhere I can only grumple about, in this house.
I live in a cozy little cabin, the vision of the sea heavenly from my kitchen window. The sunset would never seem to snug at my breathe every time it unravels. Not that we were seeing much of that celestial glory recently due to the climate anyway. But candidly, my cute cozy home has all the taste expected of a exuberant travel blogger. For the record, there's an attached Victorian fire place for crying out loud! And it's winter. I hate winter and it's not just about the blasted cold!
Making myself a cup of hot choco, I walk into the living room and lower into a one-seater sofa, wrapping myself in a hug. My hand automatically pull the small thick duvet over the head rest without looking and I bring it around myself.
Listening as little snow balls land on my windowpanes, I bring the cup to my lips, jumping as the hotness burn me.
I did it again. The same gesture I never bring myself to unlearn. The same innocence Andres was spell bound over me for.
Andres. I've not seen him for ten, no almost eleven months now.
And... No I cannot think about him. I must never think about that traitor...
Hannah? Hannah it shall be then. My beautiful, smart accountant.
But why wasn't she coming already. An hour more and the blizzard would get too foggy to drive her fancy little Chevrolett Sonic through. It was always like this in Finland.
A soft knock on the door sends a shrill slipping through my lips. The silly girl; finally showing up just now.
I almost topple the Coco all over the perfect white in my haste to get to the door, my lips already singing out all my endearing thoughts of her. Grabbing the handle and descending on her with:
"...Hannah, how could you..." But...
No one. No one? This wasn't April for Pete's sake. Who was sick enough to have played a fast one in the cold? Jobless psychos!
My eyes catch a distinct white on the floor as I make to turn into the house. You've got to be kidding me! Another letter?
The same ones that leave me changing locations like some fool? How could this person know where to find me so early? I only moved in like a month ago. This was like the three-hundredth I've gotten by my count.
Three-Hundredth... My thoughts goes forlorn... Why does that strike a cord so noisily up here?
Three-Hundredth... Where have I heard....
"I will send a letter everyday and on the last, you will be transformed."
The 'A' name! It was And... Nope, not saying out loud... He could as well show up if I did...
I could never forget the smirk on his face when he said those words. That's because, I remember vividly I wanted nothing more than to slap him back to realism. His fantasy-scented word arrangement sometimes got my skin crawling.
Suddenly at that thought, a herald-like trump ring through the air. You've got to be kidd... Who the hell does serenade...or whatever that effulgent nuisance is called, in the midst of a blizzard?!
Conceding to stepping out and giving the perpetrators a piece of my mind, I match towards the door and yank it open angry, ready to lash bountifully.
But, double what!
I blink. He's there. My eyes gapes, his lips crease. My mouth finally hang open and, hallelujah, he speaks.
"Hello Hailey, miss me?"
What in jutted-out-of-the-moon's name is he doing here? My eyes dart behind him and my mouth fling open again, embarrassingly polished this time. The trumpeters. By the throne of Norway, they were right in front of my house. He brought this nuisance?
Oops rephrase that silly: I propelled that Serenade?
"Are you not going to invite me in?" My tongue right now is clinging to the roof of my mouth, so he sees himself into the house, gently pushing me to one side playfully.
"I know you're surprised. Most especially by the surprise band, which I am not certain you fancied. But all in good time sweety, all in good time. Can I sit?" Again, he makes himself comfortable without my permission.
That's. About. It!
"What the hell is going on here?"
"Mmmm, great, you decide to talk finally. That's a pleasurable plunge darling."
Would you cut off the 'D' word already? It's not going to move mountains today.
A strand of his golden locks come loose from the neat assemble, begging me to put it back in place. That arrogant smirk on his face, making him appear like the egregious megalomaniac that he is, yet alluringly so, still seems to maintain its position. His pink lips looks blushed deeper, not that I'm thinking of a man's lips like a woman would. Not in the least whatsoever. Definitely, I'm only imagining how it managed to remain pink...even in winter... Ok, that's it. I'm thinking of them like a wo...
"I see you haven't been reading my letters eh." I throw my eyes towards the direction of the boxes. How did he even pick out the ones his letters were contained in?
The pink glory.
I answer my own question. I paid distinct attention to that box, far more than was necessary. Biting my lips and embarrassed for the first time, I lower my head and beat myself inwardly at the twisted decision to paint a box.
"The letters. We have to read them right away."
Was he crazy? Three hundred letters? The hell I won't!
I respond with a laugh and his grin only deepen. Why can't I get past this dude's smugness?
"Are you going to tell me what's going on here or do I have to prune it out of you?"
"Mmmm, my sweet Hailey. You're as inquisitive as ever. Don't worry, I will tell you." I watch as his hands extend towards the most recent letter on the sofa I occupied earlier and I realise with a start I was being degraded into a Butler in my own home.
Walking with self-assurance towards the chair, I make a graceful, overemphasized show of lowering into it and hench my shoulders just before picking the letter and giving it a tossily gaze.
He erupts in laughter and I frown, my eyes sending daggers at him. Then opening the letter angrily, I read it to myself, the first line already tickling my hormones.
My dearest Hailey.
I have missed you desperately since the last time my letter went out. You must forgive the lateness of this one as matters in Blueberry castle had to be...
Wait, castle? My eyes dart at him, but he only smiles, gesturing for me to continue.
...concluded with haste. Father would not even give me a moment to catch a breath, referring to it as flimsy impropriety. Don't scorn, you should have gotten aquinted with his many unpalatable attributes by now from my former letters. Like, does he have a drop of Norwegian blood in him, or what? Tell me, is that how you Americans say it?
However, I am overjoyed. I would finally be able to come to you my love as I have been granted leave. Not a day went by without me missing you desperately my precious and just now, my hands begin to perspire as I worry about your response to my question.
Andres Jensen Jr.
My eyes go saucers as I turn my body away from him. By the throne of Norway, he is the son of a billionaire! The son of Alexander Andres Jensen Snr. That man alone owns almost half the estates in Norway after HRM King Harald V.
But wait, there was a question? What question? I turn the paper over, flustered at being left hanging. It must be in the last letter. I have to get to the box. I must...
"Hailey..." I turn to him and grasp as I see him on one knee. "My dearest. Everyday without you has been a nightmare. My days have been shorter and my nights longer this past months. The day I saw you across the room spitting out coffee because you got your tongue burnt and looking breathtakingly innocent, I knew right there you were to be the woman I would marry. You complete me, lighten up my rather sour life filled with principles and the daily kjedelig todos. Would you do me the honours of becoming my wife and bringing the sun into every of my sultry day?"
I blink back tears, smile sheepishly and nod my head forcefully as he inserts the silvery band into my finger. He pulls me into a hug and drop a kiss to my forehead.
"Oh Andres, Jesus, you silly, pompous man."
"For you honey, I'm willing to become the meekest of them all, only for you."
I pivot my head backward, rendering my voluminous red curls jumping in abandon and bolt out a hearty laughter.
"So much for the inapparent drop of Norwegian blood in your father right? Even we American folks rock it better honey."
He's beside me now, back to his smug annoying self, that is, God help my heart, still aggravatingly appealing.
"Tell me, don't you feel transformed and complete?"
Ones Andres, always Andres. And that's exactly how I love him.
"Yes," I couldn't agree less, a blush bordering my cheek by the warm sensation I felt, "yes, I feel indeed transformed."