Dear Innocent Reader

Dear Innocent Reader, 

I hope this message finds you at a moment of peace, because I have a story that you are going to want to hear.

My first encounter with the Bridget Bleu was before the enchanting hotel was even built, and I have only visited 5 times since then. It was back in 1913 when there was no vaccine for influenza and people were lost left and right to the disease that has kept me busy for years. Back when I was ignorant of the wonders of our existence. But tonight was different. I had been called to that house to collect the Sick Woman I had been monitoring for a while. I remember thinking: Why am I here? Why didn’t I send one of the others? This is not the high profile work I do, what was I thinking?

Admittedly, I wasn't thinking that night: I never really did before her, and everything probably would have been different if I had stayed away and not listened to that pull that I felt. So alas, I stood in the corner of the room watching, waiting for the Husband to finish crying and kissing the Sick Woman’s forehead. It was at that moment that she opened her beautiful blue eyes and looked at me. It was at that moment that I knew her name: Bridget… Bridget Levine.

The thought had me staring, dumbfounded as I felt a rush of something I’ve never felt before. She blinked at me and looked away, slightly nodding, as if she knew what I had come here to do. I had never learnt the names of the people I helped, I always just nicknamed them for better organization. I didn’t even know that I could learn them, but there it was: Bridget Levine. I repeated the name over and over and Bridget looked at me again as the Husband was rattling off prayer after prayer for her, almost as if she could hear my frantic muttering in the gaps of the Husband’s words. She watched me as if she could see into the darkest parts of me, and then she gave another small nod. I remember feeling a rush of some emotion that I had never felt before. She sees me. It was terrifying and exhilarating, but whatever I was feeling was painful. Bridget faced the ceiling and closed her eyes and the Husband, who I assume is called Mr. Levine but I guess we’ll never know, stayed weeping and weeping as I stood there and let her body get cold. Something froze me to the spot. Through all the horror and pain that I had witnessed and dealt, I finally knew what it was like. It was cruel and beautiful and painful, the protection that blankness provided me being ripped away from me like that. I remember clutching my chest as if someone had ripped a heart that I didn’t know I had right out of it. I took my time crossing the room to Bridget. “Bridget, Bridget, Bridget…” over and over I repeated, though of course the Husband did not hear this. I knelt and took her in my arms, lifting her and taking her outside, leaving her cold body behind. I was incapable of tears at the time, the feelings I was experiencing were too fresh and unnatural to me. But for now I will speak no more of it: I don’t know if I have the strength.

Years passed and war kept me busy along with the outbreaks of sickness. The Husband opened a hotel in 1916, an escape from the world built where their house had been previously standing in the mountains. He died several years later in 1919, the cause of which I did not care to learn. When I heard from an acquaintance that the hotel was called the Bridget Bleu I desperately wanted to go back, but I am not in the line of business that allows for unnecessary visits anywhere, so I was forced to remain where I was. Throughout those years away, I explored these new feelings to the best of my ability. Every death I encountered, warranted a new emotion or feeling, a new meaning or understanding of different feelings that I had witnessed for years and never experienced for myself. I still felt the pull to the Bridget Bleu even years later in 1925 and I was the happiest I had been in a very, very long time when I got pulled back. It really was a beautiful sight. Tall and mighty, with neatly trimmed hedges all around and an inside so grand that you begin to doubt that it’s a hotel and not a palace. Built in the mountains, it was the perfect getaway. It was the first time I remember having no words to describe what I felt, but I got the feeling that Bridget would have loved the beautiful place, so I decided to love it too.

My first night back at the Bridget Bleu in 1925, I found what I had come here for. A trio of young women, flappers as they were so called, and the entourage of men that trailed after them. They were singers, performing small shows at the Bridget Bleu often, but the Lead of the Flapper Trio (my nickname for them) was the most liked. The Trio had been at the Bridget Bleu for three months now, biding their time and enjoying the money and men they got from their endeavors, but the other Greedy Two had enough of the Lead getting everything that they wanted for themselves. I walked into the back of the West Wing bar just as one of the Greedy Two thrust a stolen knife into the Lead’s chest. The Greedy Two stood in shock, breathing heavily and not seeing as I regrettably picked up the Lead and left with a frown. That was the first time I experienced disappointment.

For years I wandered the Earth, experiencing new things and deaths like it was my first time living. And really, it kind of was. I realized that the sunset is actually quite beautiful and the rain comforts me. I began to feel envy. I envied the people around me, laughing and talking to each other and living. There were times in those years where I would sit in one spot for days, the lesser of my kind do our work as I watched people shake hands to greet each other or roll eyes behind their friends’ backs. I loved the depth that my mind had reached, the intricacy and entanglement that I was not used to. The more I saw, the more I learned, and the more I learned, the more I developed a deeper understanding of this world. I still feel this way now: that this world is the most breathtaking thing I will ever experience, aside from Bridget. The one thing I did not envy were the people who still could not see things the way I do now.

I returned to the Bridget Bleu in 1954 again. This time, I was here to collect the Husband (we’ll call him Husband #2, to distinguish from Bridget’s). Walking through the halls, I imagined Bridget here daily, listening to the piano being played in the theater or reading books from the library. I entered the North Wing suite just in time to see the Killer Wife slide a knife over her husband’s throat as he slept. She watched him lay choking and dying on the bed, and her eyes were as fiery as his temper. I listened to her speak to him for the last time as he died, telling him that she was sick of his abuse, that she would never be a “good wife” for him. The Killer Wife looked Husband #2 in the eyes as she said: “I hope that you enjoy your time rotting in Hell.” He died then, and the look of triumph and determination and freedom on her face gave even me chills. As a favor for the Killer Wife, I made sure to send a special note along with his soul as to where he should be placed.

I had long since noticed that the people in the Bridget Bleu act differently. It was as if The Bridget Bleu was a bubble, protected from the horrors of the outside world. And considering the reasons I’ve been called back, that bubble seems to break every once in a while, and the Bridget Bleu seems to draw in death as well as working as a protection. I suppose it might be my fault. I tend to curse and ruin the places I am drawn to, so it’s not a big surprise that the hotel seemed off after what happened with Bridget. It was especially surprising that when I came back in 1966, it was because the four young West Wing Bartenders had broken through that bubble and rebelled against their Overseer. In defense of one of the Four who had darker skin that was dangerous at the time (and at any time, really), the other Three ended up dumping the wretched Overseer in the stream down the hill from the Bridget Bleu. I must admit, I was smiling as I watched them, just as they smiled when they told the other Bartender that the Overseer wouldn’t be bothering him any more. As I picked up yet another soul I felt pride for the first time at the actions of the workers, up until they got back to the hotel and fell right back into that bubble. I made sure to suggest placement with Husband #2 for the Overseer.

The time I visited the Bridget Bleu several months before it shut down was in 1973 when two men under the influence murdered their “friend” in one of the most brutal ways I have encountered. In the business, we call people like this the Almosts. The name refers to the people who weren’t supposed to die and were saved by us, or the people who weren’t supposed to die and we were too late to force them back. Unfortunately for him, and for me I suppose, he was a “too late” Almost. I was rushing through the halls, the sickening smell of burned flesh thick in the air as I entered the room when I stopped short and spun around. There were children coming. Young, innocent children about to walk into that room. No, no, no… for the first time ever, I felt a deep sense of panic. I didn’t have time to save the children along with the Burning Man’s life, so I left the Burning Man and rushed back down the hall to where I heard the children’s tiny voices giggling. The pair were siblings that were barely 8 years old, the Girl was the giggling one and the Boy was smiling shyly until I entered and blocked the hallway in front of them. The Boy raised his eyes to me, open but not seeing, and I realized that he knew I was there. His Sister was confused, and the Blind Boy just looked at me. “Who are you?”

I paused. “I am no one that you should know this soon.”

The Blind Boy considered this, and nodded. “Can you move? We want to sit by the fire.”

“No. I’m sorry, but you must return to your room. Please.” He reached out his hand to me, and I didn’t hesitate to take it as I led the Boy and his Sister back to their room. I understand that it is against the rules to do this, to interact with someone who was not from my side of the world, but I refused to leave the Siblings until I was sure they were safe from that death. (It seems a little ironic that I was the one saving them from death, but someone had to.) The Sister was demanding that Blind Boy tell her who he was talking to and what was going on, and he only repeated what I had told him before. He smiled in my direction before I closed their door. I felt a sense of relief at that moment, knowing I had saved the Siblings from seeing something that would haunt them for eternity, but I also felt regret. Regret for the fact that there had been no one to do the same for me so many years ago. I remember cursing these feelings as I left the Bridget Bleu. I did not want to feel disappointed or fearful or sad for the people that died and the others around them. I did not want to be heartbroken for Bridget or self pitying for my situation.

Now several months later, today will be the very last time I visit the Bridget Bleu, because it will be torn down tomorrow. I know I said that I am not allowed to make unnecessary visits anywhere, but they were my rules in the first place so for this I say I’m allowed to break them. For the last time I walked, heartbroken once again, around to the Gardens and followed the flower path that I made 60 years ago to a small circular clearing in the bushes. In the clearing lies five smooth stone plates in the ground and one headstone that is standing upright. Graves that only I can see, burying the deaths that revealed so many things to me. I sat and leaned against the headstone in the clearing, the words “Here lies Bridget Levine, beloved even by Death” carved into its smooth surface. I rested in silence for a while, content to just be in her presence for the last time before workers ruin this land. It is here that I sit as I write you this message.

“I mourn now, Bridget.” I whispered to her, the gentle caress of a breeze carrying my words to places unknown. “I smile because of you. I laugh, I cry, I feel rage and sadness, I grieve and frown and feel. Discovering these new feelings leaves me confused and bewildered but these decades that I’ve spent feeling because of you have been lovely, the best and the worst years of my long, long life… That’s why I couldn’t let them see the Burning Man, the Almost. It would have taken something from them too early, something that I do not have the power to give back, something that hurts like hell to lack. You took away my innocence, my ignorance. You left and you took that part of me with you, leaving me with this beautiful, horrible heart in replace of you. But what I never got the chance to tell you, Bridget, is that I wish I saved you. I never got the chance to tell you that I would give up thousands of lifetimes like this just to keep you here with me. I never got to tell you that I would have gladly let your pain fill the cracks in this soul you’ve given me, if only so that I could have some part of you stay with me.”

For an eternity I never understood why you do it. Why you people care so much, why you fight for what you believe in and why you enjoy living even when it’s so much easier to die. But now I understand. I understand your experience and I don’t ever want to go back to what I was before you. Bridget gave me the life I didn’t know I always wanted, but one I will forever cherish.

Perhaps I was called to the Bridget Bleu to collect beautiful Bridget’s soul so long ago so that this would happen, so that I could receive the gift of your “human experience” in the form of her name, to be the first of my kind to truly feel. I have become addicted to this thing you call emotion, an addict of the complexity at which I experience this new existence. Perhaps this heart she gave me isn’t inherently evil or good; maybe I’m just too addicted to the way it makes me feel that I will forever search for the meanings to feelings that leave me so misunderstood. Over all these years, I’ve seen innocence stolen and emotion gone out of control, and I’ve seen people take their own lives for what it has done to them. It makes me wonder when all these words became more than just words, when we started applying meaning and depth without knowing that it would spiral so chaotically. Too soon, that’s the answer. Too soon. I hope this letter finds you at a point of tranquility, so that I am not putting thoughts in your head that you cannot yet handle. Perhaps I was called to the Bridget Bleu some months ago for the children and not the Almost, to protect them from what they could have lost and the meanings to words that they could have gained. It is death that summons Death, and after all, the death of innocence is as much of a death as Bridget’s was, is it not?

It is with contentment that I leave you with my story, in hopes that you may start to see our world, our hearts, as I do: something more, something complex, something tangled and tortuous,                   

                           something utterly beautiful.

Yours truly,

  Death