Waltrud's Letter

"Dear Waltrud,

Dear Waltrud, ugh, how cliche. But how else does one start a letter?

I am writing this letter to address that metaphorical elephant in the room between us. I know we have not always seen eye to eye. But we usually are in the same universe. Lately, it seems we have drifted far apart. I should’ve known better. But I long for the days when we were gleefully sharing stories from our younger days as we held hands at Victoria Park. Now, it seems we are drifting apart, and I can’t help but feel that I am, if not wholly, mostly to blame.

As I write this letter from the restaurant across the street and stare out the rain-streaked glass, I imagine you are doing the same from that lovely two-bedroom bungalow, wishing for the day you can tell your husband that you no longer pine for him and have always had feelings for me since the day you met me.

I know you hate that I am clingy and consistently shower you with too much love. I know you wish I would stop writing you letters and emails and leaving voicemails to unanswered calls.

However, Waltrud, you and I were meant to be together. I remember when we first met that day in the hospital. You, the nurse, and me, the patient. You didn’t think much of it then, but I did. You were the most beautiful thing I had ever set eyes upon. You, of course, barely noted my existence, as you still do.

But deep down, I know that you have feelings for me. Why else would you have those lawyers reach out to me and set a court date to see me? When you gave me that restraining order, I knew you meant “I love you” and that playing hard to get it is your love language. This is why I continue to write you letters, send you emails, and show up at your doorstep every evening, of course in a sneaky way, because you love playing hard to get, which is just part of our little game.

I can’t wait for the day we again get to hold hands in Victoria Park and share stories. While you stated in court that resolutely has never happened, I once again know that you were being coy. I distinctly remember our walk. It hurt when you said to the judge that I have never met this man outside of him being a patient. It hurt even more when you called the cops and charged me for trespassing that first time.

Why do you do this to me? Why do you play this insolent game with my emotions? Claiming I scare you? Is that what you want? Do you want me to be scary? I could be terrifying. Maybe that’s what I will do when I deliver this letter: play a little practical joke. Who doesn’t love a good joke between friends?

I think so. I believe that is what I will do.

I guess ending letters is crucial, but this isn’t the end. It’s just a temporary pause until our subsequent encounter.

As always,

Love Chuck.

P.S. I like the new car you got!"

Waltrud finishes the letter with her wilted hands trembling. This is the most frightening Chuck has ever been, she thought to herself. Then, she began to panic almost instantly. Realizing that the letter she was reading had been delivered. What next?

It was at this time a veritable cacophony of images began flashing in her mind as the cortisol storm sent her into an all-too-familiar panic attack. Breathe, she thought. Her chest tightening was almost unbearable. “You need to get a handle on this situation.” “You can’t be panicking,” she said to herself. Yet the waves of dread and stress continued to spiral, clouding her even the most basic of judgements. You have to do something.

It was at that moment she knew that she must interrupt this anxiety spiral. Distraction is what she needed. Doing the only thing she could think of, Waltrud turned on the radio. Disregarding that she may look like a complete basket case, she turned up the radio as Destiny’s Child played “I Am a Survivor” through the speakers. She briefly thought it must look strange a middle-aged, borderline elderly woman parked in her driveway near a school, alternating between belting out “I am not gonna give up…” and crying belligerently, but she didn’t honestly care. It was working.

The cathartic break allowed the seemingly endless worry loop to subside to the mere normal moderate amount of anxiety she was used to. Calm but still incredibly uncertain about her next move, she decided to go inside her house and likely call the police again next.

On her walk up the concrete stairs on her patio, she began to feel panic rise again. She began to worry if someone was inside. Not just anyone, not her husband, him. As she put the key into the door handle, she pulled from distant memory that inserting the keys between her fingers was a way to protect against an assailant.

She pulled the key out to reposition them in her palm. Placing her front door key in between her middle and ring finger on her right hand. The back door key is between her middle finger and her index. Looking down at her Wolverine-like hand, she wondered why she was doing what she was doing.

She placed the key between her middle fingers into the door handle and twisted slightly to the left, moving the handle counterclockwise simultaneously. She then pushed the door open with a soft, nervous grace like a gazelle pushing away some brush.

All the lights were off inside the house. But there was a faint dim glow from the under cabinet lights in the Kitchen. The cheap LED kind you often see in older homes in the country. In that dim glow, she saw a dark, looming figure.

Chuck uttered with an eery, primal, soft voice.

“Knock Knock”