His Undelivered Letter

Sensitive content warning: Implied abuse and alcoholism, blackmail, mentions of homophobia, mentions of historical events, issues with mental illness & suicide.

“Hey, Martin? Can you start sorting through these packages? The next shipment goes out this afternoon.” 

I glanced over at the annoyingly large stack of packages towering over the office, then at the woman who had just spoken to me. Twenty years at this office, never learnt her name. 

As for the packages, I never did enjoy seeing the pile grow. It always simply became more threatening to me. As though the packages held an unattainable power over the entire office, like we were their servants. 

“Sure. Consider it done,” I replied as I waved my hand, silently asking her to go away. 

After she had left, I stood up from my chair and made my way over to the front desk. The packages had accumulated so much that it was difficult for me to even walk behind the front desk. It was like they were trying to swallow the office whole. 

There were so many of them that I ended up tripping over one that had been hidden under a drawer. 

“Stupid boxes,” I grumbled to myself as I kneeled down to pick up the hidden package. I stared at it for a few seconds before calling over one of my oldest coworkers. 

“This package doesn’t have a delivery address,” I said. 

He quickly glanced at what I was holding before laughing. “That’s not a package. This has been here for almost a century. It’s absolutely filled with letters from over the years that weren't able to be delivered.” 

I raised an eyebrow as I listened to him speak. “Were you never curious enough to read them?” I ask. 

“Nope. I’m only here to do my job and get off at 5,” he replied before walking back to his desk. 

I looked down at the wooden box I was holding, then over to the intimidatingly large tower of packages. 

“To hell with them,” I muttered to myself as I uncovered the lid of the box. A cloud of dust immediately blew into my face, and I spent at least thirty seconds uncontrollably coughing. 

After the dust had cleared, I reached into the box and pulled out one of the letters. 

March 29, 1986.

To Mrs. and Mr. Ivanov. 

Dear Mrs. and Mr. Ivanov,

I am your child’s teacher, Mrs. Orlova. I’m writing this letter to inform you of your child’s behaviour in class. To say that I am disappointed is a grand understatement. Your child has gone from being my top student to the lowest. He no longer turns in his homework, he ignores classwork instructions, he is constantly late, and his work ethic has become, at the very least, incredibly inconsistent. It seems that he has also neglected to inform you of this year’s parent-teacher conferences, as neither of you were present during the scheduled time-slot. 

In the last two weeks, he has caused a disruption in class four times, for all of which I have sent him down to the office. When asked to call home with the purpose of informing the parents, you, of his misbehaviour, he refuses. A few days ago, I discovered that he had somehow 'changed' your house number in the school documents so that teachers and staff would be unable to contact you, which is my reason for writing you a letter. 

In addition, I have also developed certain concerns about after-school pickup. I have recently noticed the lack of a guardian arriving to pick him up, which I would eminently like to discuss with you. 

Should this letter reach either of you, do contact me to schedule a meeting. 

Regards, 

Katerina Orlova.

I frowned upon reading the letter. “What a rude kid,” I thought to myself, “He even got his parents to be unwilling to pick him up.” 

Honestly, I could understand why the kid didn’t inform his parents of the conferences. If I were a kid, and I acted like that, I wouldn’t want my parents to meet with my teacher either.

I folded the letter and placed it back in the box, before reaching in to read the next letter. 

January 4, 2008.

To my dad. 

Hi dad. It’s Max. I’m writing this letter from the hospital. In the isolation room. I’ve been in here for the last three four days. They think I’m high-risk. There’s a nurse staring at me right now as I write. I really hate this place. They think I have something called “Borderline Disorder Personality Disorder,” whatever that means. I’m not allowed to be with the other patients because of it. I’m alone all the time. 

The doctors are mean here. And I don’t know how much more of this I can take. I really want to go home. I promise I’ll be better. I promise I’ll stop yelling at mom. I promise I’ll stop stealing your money to buy drugs. And I promise I’ll stop punching and breaking things whenever I get mad. I just want to go home. Please let me come back home. 

Dad, one of the doctors slapped me the other day. Right across my face. The bruise still hurts. I don’t know what hurts more though. The slap, or the words she said. She called me crazy. A maniac. Insane. She told me I was cutting for attention and that I “need to get my shit together.” She told me people like me don’t deserve to be loved because we’re psychopaths. I know you’re probably thinking that I must have done something to deserve that. I don’t blame you for thinking that. I haven’t really given you a reason to think otherwise in the past. But I swear, I didn’t do anything. All I did was ask what kind of medications they were giving me because I didn’t know. They never told me. And then I protested against taking them because they told me to just “shut up and take them.” 

Dad, if you get this, I love you. And mom. And I’m sorry for ruining your life. I’m sorry for being the son neither of you ever deserved. Just please take me back home, and I’ll make it up to both of you. I’ll dedicate my life to it. 

I remained still for a few seconds after I finished reading the letter. I didn’t really know how to react. What would be the appropriate reaction for that? 

August 12, 1956.

To my beloved Mary. 

Dear Mary, 

I’m writing you this letter in the car on the way to camp. I apologise if it’s rather illegible at times, I honestly can’t really see much through my tears. But I want you to know that I love you. I truly do. And I realise I’ve never actually said it, but that was only because I was afraid. I’m still teriffied terrified, but I think it’s easier over letter. I just want you to know that I shall never forget the moments we shared together. Our first date, especially. You brought me to my favourite diner and we both got one giant banana split sundae. You looked so cute with the chocolate syrup on your nose. And then you took me into the lavatory, where we had our first kiss in one of the stalls. To me, it was simply perfect.

And then one of the workers walked in to clean, and he saw us and informed your father. You arrived at our secret spot with a black eye and broken nose. That image shall never slip my mind. 

Mary, there’s so much more that I long to say, but we’re nearing the conversion camp. I hope this letter will be enough to remind you of our time together. 

I love you. And maybe one day, it won’t be necessary for us to hide. 

P.S. I hope your black eye heals quickly, as well as your nose. I wish we could have gotten past the first date. 

-Katie. 

My eyes widened as I finished the letter. That seriously took a turn for the unexpected. I felt a slight heaviness in my chest upon realising that this letter had been placed inside the undelivered box, meaning that “Mary” never got the letter. I almost felt like sending the letter myself, until I remembered that it had been written sixty-seven years ago.

I put the letter back in the box as I reached for the next one. The next letter I picked up had been terribly burnt, and half the words were almost illegible from ash smearing. 

September 11, 2001. 

To my wife Katherine and my daughter Susie. 

Dear Kat, 

I would’ve sent an email, but I’m writing this letter in the stairwell of my office. There are flames all around me. I can’t move in either direction. A plane crashed into our building a few minutes ago. No one knows whether it was intentional yet. No one really knows what happened yet, actually. Right now, I’m just waiting for someone to come. 

I don’t think I have much time to write this, so I’m going to end it here. 

P.S. Tell Susie that her daddy wishes her a happy 3rd birthday. 

(If someone finds this letter, please send it out on behalf of me.)

-Mark. 

I reread the letter a couple more times before calling out to one of my coworkers. 

“Hey, Kat?” 

She looked at me in confusion before walking over to the other side of the front desk. 

“Yeah?” she asked. 

“What was your daughter’s name again?” 

As soon as the words left my mouth, I realised the oddity of my question. I had never really cared for the personal lives of most of my colleagues. 

She furrowed her eyebrows. “Susie. Why does it interest you?”

“No reason,” I replied, shrugging. “One of the packages here was just addressed to a ‘Susie’ and the name gave me déjà-vu. Wanted to know where I had heard it from.”

She scrunched up her eyebrows even more at my reply before she rolled her eyes and went back to her desk. 

But this time, instead of putting the letter back in the box, I put it aside. 

I spent the next three hours just sifting through the box of letters. 

June 30, 2003. 

To my mom. 

Hi mom. It’s Jake. Report cards went out today. Dad wasn’t happy. He beat me again. He’s really mad, mom. I’m hiding in the attic right now but I can hear him moving downstairs. He’s also really drunk, but I don’t think he’s going to stop drinking yet. 

December 31, 1999. 

To Karina. 

I’m really sorry I couldn’t be home with you for New Year’s Eve. I got stationed in New Zealand at the last minute. 

November 29, 1950. 

To Micheal. 

Hello, Micheal. It’s Jane. The communists have apparently invaded Canada, or they plan to, at least, and there’s something called the “Red Scare” going around. There are all these investigations happening, and it’s terrifying. 

July 25, 2010. 

To my best friend, Laura. 

Happy Birthday! I know you’ll probably get this late, but I can’t afford a computer at the moment.

April 9, 2004. 

To James. 

Attached to this letter are the divorce papers, please see to them ASAP. 

May 4, 2008.

To Veronica. 

It’s Blake. Since you’re ignoring all my emails and IMs, I’m gonna do this the old-fashioned way. Just a reminder that I still have those photos you sent me, and I can send them out to the whole school in just one click. 

January 4, 1983. 

To Marlene. 

18 novembre 1967

À Joanne. 

6 сентября 1994 г.

Моей дорогой Преславе.

Before I knew it, it was already 5:00 p.m. The entire office was starting to leave, and I was eventually left alone at the front desk. 

Though one of the letters I had read was still on my mind. No matter how many I read after, it still wouldn’t leave my thoughts. 

After a few minutes of careful consideration, I grabbed an envelope and sealed the letter inside. On it, I wrote; 

“For Katherine. Sorry you’re getting this twenty-two years later.” 

I then walked across the office to leave the envelope on her desk. 

Before I left the office, I sat down at my desk and took out a piece of paper with a pen. 

May 23, 2023. 

To my son. 

Hello. It’s dad. Although I feel that I don’t deserve that title anymore. I know it’s been a while since we’ve talked, or even seen each other. Fifteen years. I guess I’m just writing this to apologise for everything. I’m terribly sorry that I failed you as a father. I’m sorry that I never took the time to try and help you. I just always assumed that you were a hormonal teenager who didn’t care about anyone but himself. And I realise how incredibly wrong I was for believing that. 

I heard about what happened four years after it happened. By that time, I felt that it had already lost its effect. I read the words in the article, but the fact that the article had been written four years prior took away from the emotional process. Or, rather, sped it up. I didn’t pay much attention to that article. I didn’t really feel much towards it. Looking back now, I think I was just numb to it. Perhaps I thought that there was simply no way that could have happened. I mean, you don’t really expect that to happen in a place like that, do you? So, I haven’t thought about it since. 

Though right now, it’s all I can think about. I can’t even imagine what you were going through then. The thoughts that were running through your mind, or the emotions that suffocated you to that point. I know you tried reaching out to me. I know you wrote countless letters to me just begging to be heard. And I also know that I refused their delivery every single time, which now fills me with endless regret. 

But I did read one of them. 

Son, I’m sorry your cries were left unheard. That your struggles were left unseen. And that your suffering was extorted.

I didn’t go to your funeral. I still haven’t visited your tombstone to this day. I don’t even know whether you have one. Perhaps your mom made you one. I hope she did. 

I don’t really know what else to write. I’m sorry you were failed by your own blood. 

After I finished writing, I folded the letter and put it inside of an envelope. I took my briefcase and coat, and I left the office. On my way home, I stopped by the town graveyard. I approached one of the security guards and asked her about a specific tombstone. When she led me to it, I placed the envelope down on the ground in front. It was far from a fancy tombstone, but it did what it needed to do. 

I looked down at the tombstone in silence for a few minutes before I finally quietly spoke. 

“I wish I had gotten you out of that hospital while there was still time. Goodbye, Max.”