To Be A Warrior

Chapter 17: Written In Red

I finish my silent prayer, eyes opening to show my shaking hands. Between my fingers is an envelope, one I'd been dying to open, but also afraid to. I've been putting it off. Every time I try to read it, to pull back the sticky seal of the slightly crumpled envelope that's got stains from the oils of my fingertips pressing against it for long period of time, I become so strung out that I can't force myself to do it.

But I have to. I've had this here unopened long enough. I got this about a week ago, and I can only guess how long ago it was actually written.

With a shaky exhale, I rip it open. My eyes drift to the date written at the top.

April 18.

She probably wrote a response as soon as she received my letter, which I wrote and sent off in February. Although this might be a reply to all of the other letters I sent her afterwards, which talked about my engagement, since Sam didn't propose until a few weeks after my first letter was sent.

My mother's handwriting is faint in the corners of my memory, but seeing it brings it back, and I realize just how different our handwriting truly is. Ours is both chicken scratch, but hers is a bit more fluid, and she writes her 'A's the simple way that they taught in elementary school, while I do it as it would have been in a book. Some of her words are hard to read, the letters small and pushed together, different from mine, which are usually too large and looping over each other at times.

But it warms my heart to see it, knowing that she's at the very least alive. And now that we've given the recipe to the cure to both America and Canada, she should be safe.

My dearest Callista,

You don't know just how happy it makes me to have gotten your letter. For the longest time I wondered if you were alive, if you and the others had made it to safety, built a life for yourselves in this living hell the world has found itself in. When I found Katelyn and she told me you were shipped off to England, I was afraid I'd never see you again, especially since she told me she was supposed to tell me you were dead. I never did find out why she was told to lie to me, but I suppose her work with the A.M.T.B. isn't something I'm meant to meddle in. Funny, since she was sixteen then. I celebrated her birthday in June, even though she wasn't there to hear me wish her a happy eighteenth. Has it really been that long?

Anyway, when she announced she was going to England on a hunch that the Runner Five from Abel Township could be you, I begged her to bring you home. A part of me still hopes you will come home, but what you've told me in your letter tells me you have much work to do with defeating the Prime Minister. If she is responsible for starting the plague, then you must bring her down.

I know you can do it. I know you are strong enough. You were strong when you were twelve, so I can only imagine how strong you are now. There are things I know you probably haven't told me. Your letter only talked about happy things, with brief mentions of why you must stay in England. I don't doubt you have good times throughout these years, but I know it can't have all been good times. That wasn't even possible in life before the apocalypse.

I'm so glad to hear about your friends. I'm glad they've been there for you. Both Peter and Tom sound odd, but everyone is a little odd from time to time, and I'm glad you're close with Dr. Lobatse. Being friends with a doctor means she can at least stitch you up in you hurt yourself. They all seem like amazing people who I hope to meet someday.

I also hope to meet your boyfriend, Sam. I do find you story of how you confessed your feelings to each other funny, but you were always one for dramatics. I'm glad that hasn't changed, and I'm glad he was immune. All in all, I like him. If what you've told me is even half true, then I suggest you latch onto him and don't let go. You are blessed to find someone like him, just like I know he's blessed to have someone like you. And I am blessed to know that you have found happiness in such dark times.