letters from zedelghem // seladore's letters

Dear Mercury,

I can only pray this letter reaches you safely. I left it in the care of a sailor I've known since I was a young girl, who promised me he wouldn't let it leave his hand until it had reached yours. Even so, I know that doesn't mean he won't lose his hand on the way. He warned me that they've had cargo stopped and searched before, and more so recently, which seems curious. Either way, I await for a letter in return as assurance that both my sailor and this message are safe.

I know that because of the danger of sending information such a long way by such a tangible means, I should keep the information I write here to a minimum. But I also know I shouldn't be writing this letter at all, and if I'm going to break one promise to myself then there's no point guarding the second one, is there?

You don't know me - you probably haven't even heard of the Institution named at the bottom of this paper, which is where I write from. If they caught me stealing their stationery and writing so frantically, they'd surely discharge me, and as I don't have anywhere else to go, and no one in this District would show me any love, I'm writing secretly in my bed while everyone else is asleep - I apologise if it makes my words difficult to read. Around me are the rhythmic sounds of my home. An orchestra of wheezing artificial lungs, humming monitors, and whirring drips and meters, conducted improbably by the dozen or so totally still patients that sleep, whether for a night or for a lifetime. On top of it all are my own noises, the ones that the doctors tell me are only in my head... but they sound so outside that it's sometimes just too hard to believe.

I should probably give you some explanation. The sailor who gives you this letter might say it comes from District Six, but I don't live there. My world is... blue, and big, and warm. I've lived there ever since I woke up here, in the Institute, a timeless while ago. It keeps me safe, muffling voices until they're no longer filled with poison, only uteral peace, and giving even the sternest faces a wavering, ethereal aura. I'm what Doctor Praxis called a medical anomaly. While his other patients move on when they wake up, I desperately tried to get back underwater. I suppose my current condition is a sort of compromise with myself. Which is why I'm writing to you.

I first heard your name, Mercury Scoff (it's a good one), as Doctor Praxis read a letter from a Peacekeeper in your District. He called you a medical anomaly, too. And so I dug, as I tend to do when something begins to itch in my mind, and found a copy of your case file. You woke up, Mercury, when no one expected you to. Extenuating circumstances, just like me. And so here we are, and I'm writing to you, to let you know that you are not alone, and to reassure myself that I'm not, either.

I'm sorry for stealing your case file - and I think I ought to apologise to you and not to my doctors. Perhaps it wasn't the right way to find out who you are, prying into your personal existence without your consent. I hope I can make up for it by including a copy of my own file with this letter. Now you know me just like I know you. When you write back, will you tell me more? Tell me about the life you live now, and how you live it? The night patrol is beginning, so I ought to stop writing now. Thank you if you've read this far, and I hope to hear back from you soon.

Yours,
Seladore Maurer

From the desk of Dr Frazier Praxis - Solitude Institute - District Six