Letterbound

By Jill Zero

     He stood outside of the brown tri-level, motionless except for the slight tremble in his hand as he read the letter he’d been putting off reading for what felt like an eternity. His eyes grazed the page in silence and processed the words in a cavern he didn’t know existed within his brain. He reluctantly wrapped his mind around the well-chosen words as if they’d vanish from the page once he’d understood them. Funny, he thought, how much power words had after etched into physical form, and even when their authors had disappeared or had long been rotting in the ground. It was funny how specific passages leapt out faster than the others, too.

     You’re selfish.

     Deep down, he knew he should have read it sooner. The potential message had careened back and forth in his unstable subconscious for months, taunting him and haunting him and dripping with the thing he resented most – loneliness. But loneliness threatened to permeate his shell prior to receiving the letter in the first place. He wasn’t used to that. Some days it became so heavy that he swore it almost spawned within him, and he let it eat him alive. Then he finally gave in and dug out the letter from its hiding place.

     Letting go had never come easily to Frederick. And the letter was a one-way ticket to letting go.

     You’re selfish. You don’t know how to feel.

     A few vehicles zipped up and down the road adjacent to where he stood. He wondered if the drivers or passengers could tell what he’d just read. Did they assume he had snuck outside his home to reflect on a mistress’s love letter that his wife didn’t know about? Or maybe they thought he had plucked the paper from the ground during his morning jog and decided to better inspect it, like a dirty voyeur would admire a neighbor’s naked silhouette while pretending to stargaze. He preferred those self-wrought scenarios to the reality.

     He fought an urge to tear the letter in two without reading the rest of it, but he couldn’t explain why. In a way, he suspected the content in front of him couldn’t live up to what he’d imagined to be on the paper. He wanted to let go and move on. He also wanted to preserve the few good memories he had left. But above all else, he wanted to tear it just to hear the sound it would make and to try to jolt his brain into feeling something, like regret or anguish. Eventually, however, his curiosity won and he continued to read the words.

     You’re selfish. You don’t know how to feel. Your failures have made me see my own failures and realize they are permanent.

     A line of ants inched across the sidewalk in front of Frederick, causing him to avert his eyes and watch the animated peppercorns make progress for a few seconds. He had an extensive insect collection inside, and he’d read nearly every library book about etymology contained within the local library. He studied bugs and remained curious about them, but he didn’t feel anything for his hobby. He wasn’t entirely sure he’d ever felt any emotion at all, save for loneliness. But he further realized it would be impossible for him to know if he’d ever felt an emotion if he possessed no basis for its comparison.

     Perhaps there’s truth to those words, he thought. If his own failures were obvious and couldn’t be smoothed over, then why would a person desire his company? Why would anyone stay in his life if no hope remained for repairs of any kind? Perhaps it was normal to not feel anything for a hobby, especially one as mundane as bug collecting, but it didn’t seem normal to be unable to recall the last time emotions came into play during daily life. How was he supposed to know?

     You’re selfish. You don’t know how to feel. Your failures have made me see my own failures and realize they are permanent. I never want to see you again.

     So this is it, Frederick thought. She’s gone for good. He’d spent dozens of days and nights without her company and deep down he knew that was the case all along. However, part of him wondered if she’d return and pick up where she’d left off. Now he understood why she hadn’t come back; he was a failure and he’d disappointed her so much that she had run away. Did that make him feel something? All he knew for sure was that her face would soon become a distant memory like the day he’d first opened his eyes.

     You’re selfish. You don’t know how to feel. Your failures have made me see my own failures and realize they are permanent. I never want to see you again. You’ll forever be inhuman, and without me.

     The truth is, Frederick was never human. Not really. His inability to grasp emotion stemmed from his artificial intellect, not from any malicious intent. She put him together the best she knew how and she couldn’t perfect him despite her best efforts.

     No. He couldn’t blame her for creating him without emotions. She was a good scientist and a better mechanic. If only there was something he could do, like flip a switch or tweak a setting, to prove her wrong. Then maybe he could inspire her to come back.

     Frederick didn’t crumple the letter as an angry person might have done. He didn’t tear it in two or throw it on the ground or set it ablaze. He carefully folded it the way it had been and inserted it back into the envelope, which he grasped between his fingers.

     I’ll always keep it with me, he thought. So I’ll never forget how powerful emotions can be, or how powerful they can be when they’re embedded inside of words. Maybe someday I’ll be able to fix the inadequacy myself. Or, if it would help, maybe I could create another like me and succeed where she hadn’t.

     Frederick slid the envelope into his back pocket and walked toward the house. He had work to do, and it wasn’t going to finish itself.