Letter 2
Tee,
Colt told me something that Zee told him—don’t be mad. They’re married. They share stuff.
You’re wallowing.
It’s a way for you to create.
I’m not like you—I don’t really have an artistic soul—but remember I told you that I liked photography? Maybe I can understand a little? It feels dumb to compare your crazy skills to what I can do with a camera because I’m definitely no Annie Leibovitz, but that creative part of my soul empathizes.
I guess I wanted to wallow when I returned home too. Not to create, not like you, but it was a way of dealing with my feelings.
I was in a bad place.
The worst of my life.
You’re right—you should have been my first port of call. I was an idiot. I know how you feel about both character traits. I’m lucky that you’re writing to me, and I won’t fuck this up.
Ah, shit.
I can’t promise that.
I will fuck up.
As you’ve already stated, I’m a man.
But I can promise to not run away when I inevitably fuck up.
I can promise that you can bury the hatchet in my shoulder if I do something that hurts you.
Because more than anything, even if my reasons were my reasons and they made sense to me at the time, I hate that I hurt you, and I think a part of me didn’t care that I did because I just knew that you didn’t deserve to live with my bullshit.
That’s a terrible thing to write. I could rewrite this letter for you and scratch that sentence out, but I won’t.
I think it’s telling about the state of my mind back then.
It’s important that you know that Cody isn’t this one. I don’t think I’ve ever been that Cody before. I hope I’ll never be that Cody again.
I’ve been a soldier for so long, a protector, focused on duty when that duty ruptured something in me. I’ve lost too many people, Tee, and I was back home after losing someone else and having to deal with my own injuries.
I guess my head was in this place where I was thinking that if I pushed you away now, then it’s better than falling for you even more and dealing with a deeper loss later.
Yes, that’s stupid.
I know, all right?
I’m just so fucking sick of losing people
Of seeing them die.
Of watching them suffer.
But I will never willingly hurt you again. Never put you through my dumb logic without explaining WHY first.
God, I can hear you playing. It’s so sad. I know I did that. I was hoping your music would change. That you’d be angry and your melodies would shift as a result. Instead, no matter what your letter says, you’re still hurting.
That’s on me.
Fuck, I’m so ashamed of myself.
All of this stemmed from trying to save myself from losing you, Tee, and to protect you from the monster in me, and I managed that anyway.
It’s only because fate worked its wiles on us that I’m even getting this chance to write to you now.
I was a Fool. (Capital F.)
I’m not sure if I’m a wise investment of your time—I know you don’t like fools. But I can’t let you go. I won’t. I’ll earn your forgiveness and we’ll move forward. You can bring this up in an argument whenever I’m a dumb fuck, but it’ll be okay because you’ll know that we can argue about how much time I’m working or how you’re spending a small fortune on musical instruments and it won’t lead to either one of us walking out.
I want that.
More than you know.
I heard you outside my room last night.
At first, I thought you were going to put my hand in water like you threatened. If you had come in, I’d have pulled you onto my couch with me. My sleep’s been shit since I came home until you and me… Well, the truck.
Which partially answers your question. (Why do you want to know if I’m disciplined, anyway?) My sleep’s shit because of guilt and shame and because I miss you. My room’s a mess because I’m free from barracks life for the first time in years. All that aside, yeah, I’m disciplined. (?)
I doubt this is B- worthy, but hopefully you can read my sincerity and it’s worth another letter.
I miss you.
Yours forever,
Cody