Your smile and dimples, and how they climb up your face and entwine with those damn eyes, making it impossible for the person on the other end do anything but feel loved and safe.
Your mind, and how despite the hectic rush of your job, I know continues to thrive; imagining this idea and the next, no doubt crafting your next design as I write these very words.
Your true self, because even though you don’t sit opposite me, or speak to me, or even look at me, you make me feel special. You make me feel strong. You make me feel better. It’s a special talent you have: an ability that keeps me going - even during those moments when I’m not your central focus.
I suppose what I’m trying to say is this: I love you, and I although I say it a lot, I don’t think I ‘say’ it enough.
You make me feel like a better person, and I’m proud of the individual you continue to grow into each day. I’ve always loved you, but the fact I still love you, and sense I’ll love tomorrow’s version more so, helps me appreciate how lucky I am today.
Thank you, B. I’ll say my thanks through a kiss as soon as you end your shift.
The boy you love,
Ausdylan Elvis Ashford x
May 6th
On the train home, and on my way to see you at The Pub
Dear Aus,
You make me blush. I don’t know what to say about your last letter, other than to thank you.
You make me feel perfect, and although I’m not perfect, and never will be, I feel as close to perfect around you as I sense possible. This makes you rather special, mister, and who knows, maybe it’s as simple as we’re perfect for each other.
In a few minutes I will see you, for I’m close to Sowerby Bridge. You’re already in The Pub with Joseph, and although I cannot stay because I need to get to work, I have to see you to kiss you and thank you and love you. I needed to read your letter today. I can’t say why just yet, but I will.
You make me feel strong at times I’m weak, although I sense you’ll neither admit or understand this.
I must now end this letter, because we’re pulling into the station. When you read this, I’ll have kissed you and whispered in your ear, “Thank you”.
We’ll have also annoyed Joseph with our ‘sappy’ ways, which is always an added bonus. How does the saying go? Kill two birds with a single stone?
I’m sorry this letter is short. I’m sorry if I’m a little distant at the moment. It’ll soon make sense, but I want you to know that I love you. I always have, and I always will.
The girl you love,
B x
THE END
- - - - - - - -
YOU’VE JUST MET AUS & B… WILL YOU CONTINUE YOUR JOURNEY WITH THEM?
As you may have noticed by now, The Letters of Aus & B is rather short; a mere glimpse into the lives of Ausdylan and Beatrice. These letters aren’t the whole story, merely a brief introduction before the main novel begins.
That main novel… I Unlove You.
You can read how I Unlove You Begins below, and if you happen to like it and wish to delve deeper, you can do so by CLICKING HERE and downloading the complete novel for free. That’s right, I wish to give you the book for nothing. No catch. No hidden costs.
A gift from me to you… the sharing of literature and stories… a simple gesture, and what I hope marks the beginning of a lovely friendship between the two of us. Thank you so much for reading these letters and choosing this book ahead of the hoard of others out there. It means a lot. I appreciate you.
- - - - - -
NOVEMBER 15TH - A BATHROOM FLOOR:
Beatrice Butterworth is a bitch. That’s how the dream ends, me shouting and falling into a dark and eerie abyss. My eyes shoot open, and for a few seconds I’m at peace. There is no pain. There is no despair. There are no lies or deceit. There’s nothing but a soothing, calming, numbing nothingness, until everything turns against me and transforms into torture.
“Urghhh,” I groan, my head throbbing and throat dry.
I close my eyes, light’s burden’s too great. My mind continues its unstable spin. Clenching my fists, I try and force my hands to my face, but I’m unable to move. I’m too heavy, far too heavy, as if something or somebody sits on my chest. What can I remember? What the hell happened? Where on earth am I?
The last thing I recall is standing outside of work, catching my breath after storming out of Tony’s office. Did I really say all those things to him? Did I tell him to sit down and shut up whilst I stood in his office? I couldn’t have. I wouldn’t have…only, I did. I remember it. I remember the white room and his drained face. It doesn’t seem real, but it is.
“What the hell?” I whisper, each word whistling through my cracked lips.
Blinking, I open my eyes long enough to explore the strange place where I lay: blue and grey tiles reach up to a cracked ceiling; an extractor fan vibrates in the corner, covered in dirt and murk; and a patch of green mould encircling a brown centre. I appear to be in a bathroom, and a rather grim one at that.
I take a deep breath and focus my thoughts, but all I do is disturb my fragile stomach. I hurt, all over. Not just aches and pains of muscles and tendons, but a throbbing surge running up my left arm. I tap my right fingers against the hard, tiled floor, and run my nails along its surface to my thigh and onto my frozen skin.
I hadn’t realised until now, but I’m cold; numb, even. Running my hand up and down my right side, all I find are boxer shorts, as damp and cold as my skin. “What the hell happened?” I mumble, using all my strength to roll on to my side.
The pain running up my left arm intensifies, the pounding in my head gets heavier, the rumble in my stomach an unbearable tumble. “What have you done?” I mumble again, struggling up into a sitting position and evaluating the chaos around me.
Two fallen and finished bottles of cheap whisky lay to my right, and a half-eaten burger to my left. All alone in this bare bathroom, I’m surrounded by a toilet and a sink, a cracked mirror above it. No towels, pictures, or semblance of life. No toilet roll, toothbrushes or shower. Just me and my mess, and a pile of vomit inches from my hand.
“Oh, God,” I say, edging away from it.
I search the area for my clothes, but find nothing on the floor except the empty bottles and discarded burger. Cuts and bruises cover my knees and shins, and a discoloured purple patch, consumes half my left arm. At least that answers the mystery behind my throbbing pain, although how it came to be remains a riddle.
Closing my eyes, I focus and think, but all I remember is standing outside the office. I suppose I drank, but how much? I’ve suffered through horrendous hangovers before, but never like this. This isn’t me. I don’t do this. Neither do I confront my boss the way I did.
I’m not sure who I am anymore. I may not remember last night, but I remember everything else. All those moments I wish I couldn’t. All those times I wish were different.
Heaving myself onto my knees, I struggle to my feet and stumble towards the chipped and broken sink. Head spinning and body swaying, I cling to the porcelain with all my might.
“Shit,” I sigh, starring at the apparent man looking back: red-eyed, with puffy cheeks, bruised forehead and grazed chin. My hair loops around itself into knotted strands. My nose, blue and tender, even larger and more crooked than usual. Despite feeling frozen and shivering, I drip with sweat. I have chapped lips and cracked skin, and patchy stubble breaking through the surface.
“You did it, B,” I say, my eyes welling like they have so often of late. “You’ve broken me. You did this. I loved you and trusted you so much, but you’ve broken me.” I shake my head and wipe away the tears bulging in the corner of my eyes. “I hate you, B. I hate you.”
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