Yours Truly

And yet again, I come to the same conclusion.

I have been sitting at my writing desk for over two hours now, pondering these dark questions. It had started with a letter, which is now clutched tightly in my hand. For some reason, I cannot bring myself to toss it into the dying embers in my fireplace.

Under the flickering light of the oil lamp, the paper on my desk is blank. The pen in its ink pot remains untouched. I have been sitting here for over two hours, and still I cannot think of a suitable reply to the note.

It's past midnight. The moon continues her promenade across the indigo skies, the stars blinking around her like young ladies at court. Their place is in the heavens, and they are blind to the plight of a man – if I can still be called that – such as myself.

I smooth out the note on my desk and read it for hundredth time.

Dear Mr. Quincey,
I regretfully inform you that it goes against my conscience to continue our relationship. I think it is in the best interest of both parties if we part company for the time being. I have been led to see the error of my ways, and I advise you to repent as I have done. I am leaving for my father’s house at Yorkshire tomorrow evening. I bid you farewell.
Sincerely,
Joseph Kleidon

His words are knives, decapitating the intangible thing we nursed together these past months. I can hear the disgust in his words, the repulsion he feels. I thought he was different, special. I thought he shared the way I felt. With him, my feelings were finally reciprocated, and I no longer felt disgusted by my own presence. But now, he sees me the way other men might, as a loathsome monster.

And despite all that his words entail, what hurts me the most is how he addressed me. Dear Mr Quincey. He is so disgusted by me that he will not even address me as a mere friend.

My fingers feel cold. I stare at the blank paper on my desk, and begin to pen my response.

Dear Mr. Kleidon, I write. He is no longer my Joseph. I respect your decision to end our relationship, and understand the causes for your choice. No, that is bald-faced lie. I thought we had come to an understanding that what we do behind closed doors is none of society’s business. Clearly, I was mistaken, and I am tempted to tell him so. I wish you the best of luck in your pursuit of Miss Sandler, and I hope you will keep correspondence with her while at Yorkshire. This, also, is a lie. It is most unlike a gentleman to be jealous of a girl, but I suppose my situation is somewhat different. I thank you for your advice, but forgive me if I do not take it right away. This, at least, is true. Yours, Adam Quincey.

I seal the letter, and leave it on my desk for the butler to collect in the morning.

Sometime the following afternoon, I receive my reply. The note is brief, and to the point.

Mr Quincey:
I still must urge you to see the error of such degenerate behaviour as that which you practice. Should you continue with your deviant behaviour, you will incur the wrath of not only the law, but God as well.
J. Kleidon

He called me a degenerate, a deviant. Do these words come from the same man who, just months before, told me that my feelings were not sins or crimes? Is this the same man who taught me how to feel worthy again?

And worst of all, he signed his note J. Kleidon. I am no more than a stranger to him now, a stranger he would rather ignore.

I tell the butler to bring up a bottle of wine from the cellar, and then I lock my door.

I spent much of my adolescence trying to change the way I feel, but all in vain. To me, the touch of a beautiful lady is nothing compared to the smile of a handsome man. Perhaps that makes me less than a man. Perhaps that makes me less than human.

Several months pass. I next see him in London, walking smartly down the street with a lady hanging off his arm.

I try to walk the other way, but my companion, a mutual acquaintance of ours, drags me to him.

"Good afternoon Adam, George," he says at our approach. His face is unfathomable. "May I present my fiancée, Miss Rebecca Noles." The lady curtsies, and smiles charmingly. A perfect bride for a perfect man.

"You lucky fiend," laughs George, "to land yourself such a beauty."

And yet, he is likely the only man for miles who cannot enjoy her feminine beauty. Or has he cured himself?

I cannot keep silent. "Miss Sandler must be sorely jealous to have lost as pleasant a man as yourself."

Joseph chuckles nervously. "I forgot Miss Sandler the moment I laid my eyes on Rebecca."

We continue this façade of a conversation, and neither George nor Miss Noles ever suspects a thing.

"By the way, Adam," asks Joseph, "did you happen to take my advice on the matter we discussed in our last letter?" How delicately he masks his enquiry.

"Yes," I lie. "I thank you for your kind advice." The words taste like bile.

I hoped to see a flicker of disappointment on his face, a sign that he still sometimes thinks of me. Instead, the only emotion that passes over his face is relief.

I excuse myself, and leave.

The cobblestones are wet with slush and snow as London’s Christmas spirit bustles around me. A peddler walks up to me, displaying his stock of shiny trinkets.

"Ev'ning, guv. A trinket for the lady, hm?"

I wave him away, and wonder how he would react if he knew what sort of abomination I am.

Dusk gives way to night, and the lamps along the street are lit. I find myself wandering the darker alleys running toward the River Thames.

As a child, I was told over and over that men loving men was unnatural. They told me that it was blasphemy to God, and it was sin.

When I met Joseph, I found relief. I found another like myself, someone who understood without judging. But clearly, I was mistaken. Joseph had managed to cure himself of this twisted attraction. But on the other hand, as much I tried to be normal, I cannot.

I am a freak. I hate myself for who I am.

I imagine myself writing one last letter.

Dearest Joseph,
I miss you terribly.
Yours truly,
Adam

I'm rather satisfied with this letter. In my mind, I see him on his wedding day. The butler hands him my note. He opens it, perhaps thinking it a congratulatory note. His eyes find my name and he is left pale and trembling.

But I won't write the letter. Let him enjoy his wedding night in peace. Let him forget about me.

The Thames is freezing cold this time of year. I shiver as water seeps through my coat. Perhaps, I’ll freeze before I drown.

Through the water, I see the moon continuing her careless promenade.