Last Letters of Julia Sinclaire

Proof of my (Julia Sinclaire’s) folly

October 13

It has recently come to my attention that I am to die soon. I haven’t had any dire prognostications from doctors: no cancer or any other kind of terminal illness, and in fact I have gotten a perfect bill of health from my doctor not three weeks ago. I am not planning on killing myself, nor have I received any threatening letters that women in detective stories always seem to get. I am not getting so up in age that that should play a factor in my death, but despite all of these things, I can feel the reaper’s scythe hanging over my head as though dangling by a mere string.

My house sits at the end of the street in a quite modern suburban area. It’s not the creepy end house that you may have in mind. There’s no ivy climbing the walls or untrimmed bushes obstructing the view of the place. My house looks just like any other along the street. Brick that hasn’t been cleaned in a few years and trimmed with dusty white. My front yard is rather modest as I am no friend of plants. They always die, no matter how religiously I work to keep them alive, so my front yard has grass that needs cutting soon and anthills dotted close to the old fence. I have to keep an eye on my nephew the times he stays with me to make sure he doesn’t get eaten to pieces. Several pots sit on my front porch with old dirt, and weeds peek through the cracks of the stone walkway leading from my porch to the street where the mailbox is.

Lots of people jog or walk past my house when getting their exercise, but I know none of them by name. I give them my own names if I see them enough. There’s Reddie who’s ruddy face always chuffs past my fence late in the afternoon. You’d think she would find a cooler time of day to go on a run, but perhaps she’s busy with three kids and a day job. Maybe she’s got night classes at the community college and is trying to get a degree for a better job after her good-for-nothing husband walked out five years ago, or maybe she just likes jogging with the sun still blazing hot. There’s Shirtless who is a tall man who runs in the mornings and the evenings. He doesn’t wear a shirt over his buff frame, and a sheen of sweat can be seen by even me, a nearsighted lady, from the window over the sink. Every time I see him, I contemplate asking him to put on a shirt, but I know better. Men have every right to go shirtless as unfair as that seems to women who cannot do the same, but I can’t help but crinkle my nose at the sight of him running past. I have named and imagined the lives of many of my neighbors, for I assume they must all be neighbors, and yet I realize that I am now rambling. I apologize to whomever is reading this. I always find myself carried away when talking about the mundane goings-ons at my home.

I am hoping this description of my calm life is enough to prove to anyone that I am not delusional or crazy. I live with two cats who although occasionally menaces are really the sweetest little beings on the planet. After I pass, I would like them to go to my nephew as he has a connection with them. I’m a freelance writer, which means I work from home and that I rarely get out of my house aside from coffee runs or catch ups with old friends. I make enough money to get by comfortably and to donate to a few choice charities. My family has no history of mania or delusions or schizophrenia, so I have no reason to believe that I have them.

I realize I have said little of what has brought my own impending death to my attention. I apologize and will remedy this immediately.

A month or so ago (time has little meaning except for deadlines), as I was out watering the dead soil and weeds on my porch, I saw a single raven sitting on my fence. It wasn’t looking at me, and as I stared at it, the black bird took off into the surrounding trees. I have to admit that I think ravens are beautiful, and I had gotten the desire to read that poem by Edgar Allen Poe. Perhaps that was what put my mind in so dark a place, but I do not believe it to be so because I do not fear whatever omens ravens may or may not bring. I’m pretty sure that after satisfying the urge to read the poem that the incident of seeing the raven completely left my mind.

Then a couple weeks later, when I was bringing out the trash, I found two ravens sitting atop two pots that frame the edge of my walkway. As soon as I stepped onto the porch, they took off. Again the incident fell out of my thoughts as I threw out the trash into the dirty bin.

Every day since I have found at least one raven sitting on my lawn.

These incidents, as I have taken to calling them, may not seem that dire or ominous, but I began to have nightmares immediately after seeing the pair of ravens. They were all the same. A flash of white light in the swirling dark followed by the cawing of ravens. Now you might be inclined to laugh, but if you are reading this then perhaps my foretelling came true and you have come across my papers to find this tucked somewhere on my desk.

As I stated earlier, I began to feel a heavier and heavier weight hanging over my shoulders. I am not a person of nervous disposition, but I do fancy an invisible scythe hanging over my head and waiting for the right moment to fall. I felt the urge to write down my thoughts on paper, as you have read, and even now I can feel the weight on my shoulders. The weight isn’t as terrifying as you might expect, although it is certainly not comforting like the weight of my cat on my lap. The feeling is more like when you wear a turtleneck or a choker and are slightly uncomfortable at the pressing on your neck.

I don’t want to die, but it is not up to me when I die. I intend to go peacefully, and I know I shall die with no regrets. The only things that make me sad is that I may not have time to have dinner or chat with all of my friends, and indeed I am nervous about leaving the house.

My brother and his wife asked me to babysit their son tonight, so I shall at least have one more night with my nephew. I plan on reminding him of whom to call if anything should happen to me. Even now, outside my window I can see six ravens in various places on my lawn. Somehow that number makes the weight press slightly harder on my shoulders, and I shudder at the idea that my nephew would be here if I were to die tonight.

Yours truly,

Julia Sinclaire

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My Final Farewell

October 23

I am weeping as I write this. I cannot - cannot - believe what has happened. It’s been like a nightmare wrapped in a nightmare wrapped in a nightmare. It was supposed to be me. It was supposed to be me.

I am writing this as a confession to my own failings as a person and as an aunt.

My nephew and I were outside - oh sweet Jay I’m so so sorry! We were digging for worms as it had rained a few hours before, and he was trying to get close to the anthills, giggling whenever I caught him and fussed at him. He has had the cutest little giggles. The sky was overcast and gloomy, but the cats were outside as well. They loved being around Jay because he would pet them and play with them.

A raven on my roof caught my attention. Earlier I had gotten Jay to show me how to dial 911 in case he needed to, and I felt that whatever was going to happen was about to happen. I didn’t know what to expect, maybe a bolt of lightning or a sinkhole or a cartoonish anvil to fall down and kill me.

I didn’t expect the flash of lights glinting off the window over my sink. I turned around to see a pair of white lights from an approaching car. Fog had gathered on the street in the gloomy day, but I could clearly see my nephew lying still in the street. The cawing of ravens made the hairs on the back of my neck rise. It only took a second for me to understand. While my attention was on the raven, Jay had snuck up to one of the anthills when he must have seen the cat slinking through the front gate and followed it to the street.

With two horrifying thumps, my nephew was no more. The car sped off, and inside I could see Reddie, her red face already burning and her eyes wide with the knowledge of what she had done. I hope she burns worse in hell. Regardless I was left alone with Jay. I’m sorry but I can’t bring myself to describe the horror of what I had seen, or what Jay had looked like. I can’t. The image was so awful that I might dissolve into another fit of tears if I think about it too much.

I called 911, but help took far too long. I was thoroughly in shock that I almost didn’t see Shirtless barreling up the road like usual until he was practically on top of me. There was nothing I could do to move my nephew from the street because I couldn’t stand the idea of moving him while he was- like that. Shirtless seemed to be surprised and quite nervous. He was hovering like he didn’t know whether to hug me and stay or to continue on his run. I suppose my shock induced indifference was what made him stay in the end. Honestly, I am thankful that he was there when the police and the ambulance and the coroner all arrived. Everything all of a sudden became overwhelming, and I had trouble making sentences. He made me tea and fixed me some frozen waffles. I didn’t eat and barely sipped the tea, but it was comforting just the same to have that warm mug in my hands and the smells of fresh tea and waffles invading my senses rather than…. well, you know.

My brother and his wife were devastated. Understandably, they have pulled away from me more. They must blame me for his death. I blame myself too. I should have been paying more attention. I shouldn’t have let my silly fancy pull me away from my nephew. Reddie was arrested for manslaughter and sentenced, but I paid little heed to the actual trial even though I had to give testimony. It might have been her who had hit him, but I knew that I was the real culprit. I did find out that Reddie’s name was Angela and that she was a widower with a kid in college. My flights of fancy are again proved silly, pointless, and wrong.

The ravens have crowded my lawn more and more since Jay’s passing.

I hope that I am next. I refuse to have anyone over at my house as I don’t want anyone getting hurt. This will be the last thing I write.

Yours truly,

Julia Sinclaire