Yeah. I suck. I know. Midterms and studying have been crazy, but I'm sorry. Here it is.
As I hurriedly rushed to the mailbox, I tripped, I cursed, then frantically looked around to be sure that no one had seen – or heard – and stood up, blushing. I brushed myself off, and noticed my hands were bleeding. I smiled in vain; knowing mama would care this time. I must hurry to the mailbox now, and return inside to continue taking care of her.
At long last I reached the post box at last and waiting there for me was a letter, addressed to me in a beautiful calligraphy. I hurriedly opened it, reading it several times in the few precious moments I had.
After my mother had finally lain down to sleep at night, I quietly left to trim my candle on the bedside table of my room. I had sad news to write.
My dearest Edward,
I am rejoiced at the news of your imminent return. We will finally be able to be married. Please, my love, continue to take care of yourself. It most pertinent to both of our survivals that you return unscathed.
It is with heavy heart that I write letter, however. Both my mother and Papa have fallen ill. My father had collapsed at the office when they took him to the hospital. A man named Doctor Cullen had examined him and declared that my father had the beginning stages of Spanish Influenza. He recommended that my father be moved to a special wing of the hospital. Mama refused. Papa insisted. He didn't want us to grow ill. He is there now. My mother and I visit him everyday. And now, tomorrow, my mother must be moved there as well. She also has grown ill.
Papa says I am no longer allowed to visit him, for fear if my growing ill as well. Mama says she does not wish for me to visit either, but I know that secretly they both want me to return. I care not for my safety, I must help them. They will be so lonely. Although men and women are combined in the hospital, (Mama nearly had a stroke when she was made aware of this; I know not what she fears though, Papa would never dream of being unfaithful) it is entirely possible that they will be no where near each other. But I am going to talk to Doctor Cullen about having they next to each other.
You asked me to tell you of major events happening in America. I understand none of this, but I know that you love baseball, so I shall tell you of baseball. On Wednesday eleventh, 1918, the Boston Red Sox won the World Series; there was quite a bit of celebrating, even Papa had a small drink other than that abominable scotch or brandy! I believe the drink was called beer. He immediately felt ill afterwards, and swore to never drink it again. It was quite amusing.
Something else amusing, that horrible tyrant of a girl Lauren Mallory, the daughter of the mayor, was parading around with that appalling Michael Newton, only to have him publicly humiliate her at a ball given in her honor. I know, it is wrong of me to take such pleasure in her pain, but honestly, it was one of the funniest things I had ever seen. There was not a single person in Chicago did not know of her humiliation.
It is late, I must end this. Remember always that I love you.
So I have decided to try to expand you guys' palate, so I am going to start recommending stories in each new chapter of a story I post, and a one-shot in each one-shot that I write. So today's story is Sewn by 0.0. It is rated M, for not for anything lemony. It is amazingly good, you need to read it.