Letter Unknown
October 15th 2023
“Hey, Mister Priss, I’m home,”Jane Dawn walked into the hallway, her hand pushing the previously open door. It shut with a loud click which reverberated through the otherwise silent home. Jane hit the light switch and her eyes were drawn to a rickety table near the door where several days’ worth of mail lay, the dates printed on the stamps all from weeks earlier. As she threw the keys onto the table, something caught her eye.
The silver frame was plain, containing a picture of Jane and her father sitting at the library. Joseph Dawn sat in the chair next to his daughter, a cold and impartial look upon his face. He looked nothing like his daughter; Joseph was brown-eyed and dark-haired, and from what the picture had captured, Joseph wore what looked to be a black suit and tie, as if he needed to step out of the library and into a formal dinner. Jane was quite the opposite, with blonde hair and bright blue eyes, her clothes rumpled, conveying the look of falling asleep and not bothering to change. Jane had never understood the difference between the two. Perhaps it was thanks to the teenager’s mother, who had been dead since her birth, but she could not exactly tell which person she got what from. Joseph had never really spoken much on the subject of Jane’s mother; it was taboo to speak of the woman who had given her life. Sometimes she reasoned it was because her father missed her.
They also, like their looks and personalities, did not share the usual father/daughter relationship which many of her peers had; the two fought more often than not. Sometimes their fights were over school, sometimes over Jane’s insatiable urge to sneak out from her window at all times of the night, and just as often about the cigarettes which were occasionally found on her person or in the laundry room. The last fight had been two weeks prior, where Jane had brought home a ragged boy with too many holes in his face and an issue with spluttering out obscenities after every word spoken.
The girl grabbed the framed photo, touching the glass softly with the pads of her fingers. Streaks of grime came off and Jane wiped the filth on her jeans, muttering softly about chores. She carried it through the house, a prayer on her lips that the Windex would be under the kitchen sink.
“Did you get the mail yet, cause I really don’t want to walk back outside again.” Jane paused for a moment, “Y’know, the weather-man said it was going to rain—guess we should have a little more faith?” Jane called out, smiling, as she walked idly from the front entrance to the living room. She shivered for a moment; had her dad not gotten home yet? Her question was answered as she looked into the cold kitchen. The light was bright but did not help to warm the room.
On a normal day, the dinner table was spotless, no papers, mail, or dishes were ever left on the pale maple wood, but for some strange reason two boxes were on the table with brown packaging paper thrown all around. Her father, who always looked prim and proper, sat in one of the chairs, a letter clutched in his hand. There was a tremor in his voice as he spoke.
“Lilith, go to your room.” His voice was not anything the teenager had ever heard before. A bead of sweat slid slowly down Joseph’s face; Jane knew the liquid was not sweat but a tear.
“Dad, who’s Lilith?” Jane asked, taking a hesitant step forward to touch her father’s hand. As her hand touched his, the man smacked it away lightly. A stone seemed to drop into the sixteen-year-old’s stomach as she pulled her hand away, hiding it under the crook of her other arm.
“Just go to your room, I don’t want to talk.” His eyes stayed trained on the letter which was clutched in his right hand. Never did his eyes stray from the writing on the paper nor did his lips relax. The blood in his heart pumped to the wrong beat. When Jane did not move, her Joseph turned around to look at her. His deep black hair was mussed and his eyes seemed to be the color of polished garnet. The picture frame which Jane had clutched fell to the ground, the sound of breaking glass echoed around the room.
“What the Hell’s wrong with your eyes?” Jane covered her mouth as if it would prevent the escape of an unforeseen monster. Joseph Dawn’s eyes were a lovely natural shade of brown, but for some unexplainable reason the color seemed to bleed out, perhaps literally as the color of his eyes was the color of blood freshly lost. His eyes narrowed.
“Just get upstairs—” The man seethed.
“What if I don’t want to?” Jane yelled back.
Joseph’s eyes lit on fire. “Get upstairs right now—” he growled, staring at his daughter, his fingernails imprinting on the white paper. Jane did not move.
“What the Hell is wrong with you?” The girl yelled, stomping her foot against the ground. “Your fucking eyes are red! Red! Are you on drugs or something?” Jane knew her father was stressed, but drugs were going too far.
Joseph snorted, “Go to your room. I can’t handle you right now—”
“You can’t handle me? You’ve never been able to fucking handle me!” Jane screamed.
The feelings, the vile emotions which had lain dormant for far too long spewed out. “You can’t handle anything… You’ve never been able to handle anything—” Jane screeched.
Joseph gritted his teeth together.
“Go to your room . . . ,” Joseph spoke softly, his eyes blazing further, “And don’t you dare come down.”
“But I have to go back to Geia’s house—” Jane was cut off.
“I don’t care where you ‘have’ to go. Get in your room and if you as much as come down those stairs I swear. . .”
With those words Jane launched herself out of the room, her sneakers trudging in the broken glass which littered the floor. Tears welled in her eyes and every step forward made more violent tears fall. Finally, after achieving the last step, the house shook with a vengeance. The door slammed shut so loud the mirror in the upstairs bathroom shattered.
“I wish I didn’t have you as a fucking father!” Were the last things heard.
Downstairs, Joseph Dawn sat, contemplating his very existence. He had been Joseph Dawn, the realtor, for so long his original name seemed to leave a bitter taste in his mouth. Michael Lovar was a name of the past, a history book closed for too long, and when opened the violent wars and blood-stained past mingled and warped. He stared at the letter in his hands, his fingers shaking. He did not want to see a past which he had sealed from his mind. How could he have been found? The two had been so safe, or so he had concluded, leaving everything behind in Ventra, not contacting anyone, changing their very names. Michael knew in his heart if he really wanted to look they could probably be easily found.
Hesitantly, the man opened the letter in his hands. The black ink was vivid against the off-white material. The first page had Michael’s nickname, Mikey, written, and Michael nearly choked. No one had called him Mikey since he lived in Ventra.
Mikey,
Hey, long time no see, eh? I just thought Lil would like to hear the story of her life, of my life, of Hallie’s life. I know for a fact you’ve been neglecting to tell the poor girl anything, so I’ve decided to make life a little simpler for you. Inside is the story, our story, the whole of Ventra’s story. I recorded everything, for fear you or one of the other dim-witted friends of ours would forget—or, like in this case, you not informing Lil of her past. Don’t pretend I don’t exist.
Don’t pretend what happened never did.
She deserves as much.
With love, Vincent
P.S.—I’d rather you not burn them, thank you. You of all people should know better. I put a lot of work into getting them written, and it would be such a waste of paper, don’t you think, if I had to write it all out again. Might as well give it to her now, otherwise who knows what extremes I’ll go to for her to hear this story?
V.B
The paper stung Michael’s hand as he slammed it down against the table. A small sob choked from the back of his throat, sounding like a wounded animal.
He sat still for nearly ten minutes before opening one of the boxes. Inside, under the Styrofoam peanuts were plain notebooks. The other was filled with trinkets. Michael’s fingers traced the soft surface of a bright red sweatshirt; the holes in the material still felt the same as it had sixteen years before. He lifted the aged shirt to his nose and took a deep breath in. The smell of dust, fire and apples invaded his senses. Michael knew the smell was no longer present, but a memory deep inside stirred. Michael placed it gently back into the box. A small tear dripped down the side of his face.
Michael lifted the first notebook out of the box and flipped to the first page. The book was slightly torn and tattered, caused by strenuous writing, but everything was clear.
I don’t know where to really begin. The story I tell you now is nothing but the cold, honest truth. I should start from the beginning and work my way up to the important things, should I not?
Most people believed my life was a paradise, but to me, Vincent Beltryn, it was the equivalent of Hell on Earth. I grew up in the wealthiest part of middle-of-nowhere Ventra, Washington, a small town north of Seattle where people either made their fortunes or squandered it. Split into two distinct parts, the dirt poor or the overly rich, I lived where bath tubs were larger than bedrooms, a painting cost more than a working man’s yearly salary and the wine cellars in the basement were stocked with the rarest wines which flowed like the fountain of youth. I lived in a paradise, a place where people stared enviously out their car windows as they drove by, hearing only the melody of laughing and expensive glasses tinkling. I would gladly have turned the tables with them if I had the chance if not for the fact that Fate was a cruel, twisted bitch.
Now, before I continue in what may seem to be a whiney entry into a life of considerable luxury, let me explain why the world revolved in the direction it did; rich people feed off of the unfortunate people bleeding helplessly below their feet. As it was, children of rich executives—or defense attorneys in my case—were the stepping stones over the gore their Bostonian shoes and stiletto heels created. My father and step-mother, darlings in their own sadistic ways, were the type of people who would throw extravagant parties for the Hell of it, just to flaunt their already apparent wealth—tuxedo suits meshed with crushed velvet dresses, black against off-white, eyes swimming in the same glazed ocean of Monte Puliano D’Abruzzo and Chivas Regal.
James Beltryn, my father, had gained his fortune thanks to the disgusting crimes of others. A defense attorney to the rich and powerful men of Seattle, my father had gained the name of ‘Best Defense to anyone who is able to shell out more than a hundred grand’. I never understood how a man could stomach allowing rapists, murderers and child molesters back into modern day society, until I finally realized he enjoyed being the monster behind the suit and tie.
Unlike my father, my step-mother Vanessa did not need a mask or suit to allow her to play the proverbial boogeyman. She didn’t need a job either, so she became what ‘Good Morning America’ called a housewife. I could never call her such because in my mind a housewife was the mother who baked chocolate chip cookies and picked her kids up from soccer practice, not a woman who sat on the couch all day watching cheesy Lifetime movies and knocking back Boodle’s gin as though it would magically make the age lines disappear.
Growing up with Vanessa had meant for a simple cough I was shipped off to the local hospital. To say I lived in a hospital room the first five years of my life would be sadly accurate. The first word which ever left my mouth was not doggy, cookie or daddy, but ‘pokey’, the nickname the doctors used when they referred to needles. It was stomach churning and slightly disappointing. I, of course, was not aware of this until the second grade—most other children believed I was weird from that moment on.
The only reason I was even kept around in the wonderful happy home was for social and economic reasons. A married couple needed a child to be considered a happy family. Without a cooing baby the words of ‘adultery’ would slip from the neighbors mouths. Money-wise, I was worth more than most people’s lives. I loathed every cent of it but was not able to prevent it from coming.
I would say I was a liability to my parents since diapers; as a small child, I was forbidden from leaving the premises. I was never allowed to play in the soft grass, to touch the petals of flowers or taste the rainwater which bloomed from the sky. My parents, particularly Vanessa, were horrified I would open my mouth and let spew the world from my eyes to one of the neighbors. Secrets were meant to stay secrets, after all.
I snuck out once, making it down to a neighbor’s front yard. I was four, with wide eyes and an open heart. I shudder at the thought of what might have happened to me if I had met the wrong person that day. Probably would have had my body tossed into the local Greenedge Swamp, no doubt.
A lovely young woman sat on the front porch of her manor-like home; a small child lay on the grass nearby. He had been my age, and that day I met my first friend. Mikey was a smart little kid with a smile which never wavered. Even after my step-mother screamed as she tore me away from the boy’s front yard, yelling about ‘scaring her to death’, he kept smiling.
Sadly, the people four houses away were the only neighbors with consciences, meaning they were most frequently the talk of the block. Even with money and power there were outcasts.
Most children look at their childhoods and remember amusement parks, picnics on the occasional sunny day and thousands of hugs and kisses. I, on the other hand, remember wine flowing like a river during Christmas parties, the screams which seemed to shake the houses foundation during my parent’s fights and the multiple accidental walk-ins on my father and his secretary during Vanessa’s spontaneous trips to Malibu. I figured after the first incident the two would remember to lock the door behind them, but they never did.
When I look back on my years of living in the house, I cannot recall one time which ever equaled the amount of suffering caused by my horrid school years.
On the first day at Saint Peter’s Catholic School for Boys, I drew an upside down cross on the class mural, where the children were expected to show something of their lives. I had picked the upside down cross in favor of a bottle of whiskey. My step-mother had always told me since I was an infant the cross was one of the only items which never should have been desecrated, and if I ever did something to it I would be sent straight to the fiery pits of Hell. In innocent curiosity, I wondered whether I would be instantly transported home, or under the ground.
Anyway, the nun nearly had a stroke when she saw what I had drawn, and brought me to the principals office. The stern man called in my step-mother, who in my mind was the reason why I was in trouble in the first place. It was she who had ingrained in my mind I was to always ‘use the best shit’, which just so happened to be a violent hue of red paint. Perhaps the crucifix would have been slightly less inconspicuous had it been a nice floral green or sky blue.
The principal, after speaking with my mother, considered it best if I went to see the counselor and perhaps get actual mental care from a professional. A shrink was probably the last thing I needed, considering the fact I was perfectly sane, but surrounded by lunatics. Needless to say, I never stepped a foot in Saint Peters again. My step-mother could not have me at a school where the principal thought I was mentally disturbed. It was a travesty to society for Vincent Matthew Beltryn to be considered insane, and even worse for people to know it.
That very day my dark blue uniforms were switched for maroon. Saint Michael’s was just as excellent as Peter’s but a thousand times stricter. After speaking with the principal, stressing the fact I was to be strictly taught and punished accordingly, with no peace or leniency, I wandered aimlessly for some futile sign of hope.
Once again, I went against the ways of the school, forming my own path. The very first day, little Mikey, the one kid who would speak to me without pulling on my tie or yanking on my long hair, the very same child who lived a few doors down, formed a friendship which put him in the direct path of personal injury. Granted, Michael Christian Lovar was already doomed from the beginning, but he could have lessened the blow by ignoring me. The two of us together destroyed public property, disregarded rules, and caused the people of Saint Michael’s an extensive amount of migraines from kindergarten to the eighth grade.
Punishment was a common occurrence, but a nun could only smack hands with rulers for so long before the pain faded into deep resentment. By the second grade I feared just about nothing the school officials could possibly do to me legally. Living in Hell would do such things to a person, correct?
For the most part I was spending months in detention for smoking in bathrooms, digging my initials into school windows and happily spreading rumors of how Zachary Taylor would give head to anyone with a penis and a driver’s license. It wasn’t true, but it was interesting to watch his face turn pale green as the nuns would search his backpack and locker for sinful material which would show he desired for the same sex. Later my childhood bully made life for me quite. . . interesting.
The worst punishment in the school was when Mikey and I filled the bathroom sink with lighter fluid and lit a match. The white tiled walls glowed with the incandescent light of marble on fire. We sat around the burning blaze lighting cigarettes until the fire alarms roared to life, letting water spray down from the metal asterisks. That was what ended my eighth grade year, and according to the principal I would be spending my entire high school career in a detention room. His face was amusing, a purplish color which managed to make my lips turn upwards in what could be considered a small smile.
The school rarely called my father, preferring my insane step-mother over the never seen legend, but that day was the first time he entered the school. He raised Hell in his wake, leaving my principal still and me shaking. The profanities which slipped from his mouth were words not even I dared to ever utter. I could see the lips of my principal forming the words to the Hail Mary as he left, steam almost rising from his vacant chair.
Entertainment was at its highest during the summer; I was not allowed to leave the house for the entire summer, as well as having my name enrolled in Saint Paul’s Catholic High School. The disgust of having to deal with another four years in a school which nuns still had the option of boxing ears or beating children with the tips of rulers was honestly unbearable. I spoke with a tremor in my voice, walked with a wince and hoped with every ounce of me pity would be taken into account and mercy would be granted.
One day as my father was out and my step-mother was getting drunk I decided, rather than dealing and suffering as I was expected to, I retaliated. Mikey’s mother, an angel, drove the two of us to the local high school. As she filled out Mikey’s forms, I attempted to forge my own. I hadn’t believed she would be too thrilled with me after the fiasco, lighting the bathroom on fire, but she had shook her head and told me she thought I was an idiot who craved attention but she loved me anyway.
Two days later, my father was called by Ventra High School because one of the counselors had noticed distinct similarities between my father and my signatures. The steam once again rose that night when he spoke to me, but I had somehow convinced the man to a deal. Attorneys always have a way with words, and their children pick up ways to slyly attempt to get what they want, using their parents tricks of the trade against them.
Somehow I was supposed to make sure Vanessa was gone every Sunday afternoon, which ended up being as simple as dumping her stash of alcohol and, more importantly, cocaine down the toilet. She never once imagined it was me; Vanessa was convinced she must have drunk and snorted it all the previous day. I never bothered asking why he wanted her gone, and I had no intention of finding out as long as he signed the papers, which he grudgingly did.
I remember as he signed the papers mentioning something about a few of the neighbors allowing their children to enter public school rather than private, but there was much more concerning me at the moment than someone talking about other people. I also can remember quite clearly how I ran up the block with the papers in my hand, my father yelling behind me how I was still very much grounded.
My step-mother, for some odd reason or another, did not complain about my new and rather interesting school. I had expected some type of reprimanding; at least some violent screaming and thrashing from the woman but it had unusually never came. James had a hand in her silence, I was certain, but I was at a loss to see how exactly he had done the impossible. I didn’t care either, so I never tried to figure it out. It was best not to delve into my parent’s twisted relationship. I started school in rainy September happy, until reality took its toll against me.
On the very first day at Ventra High School I noticed the issue. Dressed in clothing I never imagined I would ever wear, I noticed how my father’s words should have been taken as a warning. All around were Saint Michael’s students: left, right, behind me and in front, I was positive I had fallen into my worst nightmare. But, my nightmares had never been as terrifying as the reality I was forced to face. If someone threw you into a tank with a hungry class of piranhas, you would have been terrified out of your wits.
By the second week I was viewed not only as a trouble maker almost in the same league as the Anti-Christ, but an outcast as well. My peers were bigoted assholes who had the audacity to see me as unnatural and strange because I had no desire to be some stupid collar popper on the football team. I went the direction I wanted to, which in no way signaled I was anything like them. The fact I wore dark clothing and more makeup than porn stars didn’t change the matter either. What was worse for them was I refused to apologize for being the black sheep among the herd of white, for not conforming to the molding of a perfect teenage boy, to not be what CNN wanted of a rich boy, but the child who seemed to fit into every category of evil. I wasn’t what people wanted, but they had little say on the matter.
Going to Ventra High School was another experience entirely, something I had never expected. The teachers were underpaid, the books were tattered and torn, and the entire place stank of cleaning detergents and the sand and dust which had accumulated from the shoes which traveled down the hallways every day. Even though the building was an asthmatic’s worst nightmare, it was much better than where I could have ended up. When things got really bad, I just remembered at least there were no nuns chasing me around, throwing holy water at me.
Basically, my life couldn’t have possibly gotten any worse than it already was, let alone change, but that was before I met the raven-haired mute which would change my life forever.
“Shit—” Michael swore as screaming erupted from upstairs. Jane’s feet crashed against the upstairs carpeting and what sounded to be a vase smashed. Jane rushed down the stairs, her enlongated limbs nearly causing several accidents.
“What the Hell is going on with me?” Jane shrieked. Her skin, which had been pale as snow was now a darkened shade, almost tanned. Her eyes had changed from their bright blue to a stormy gray; they were the color of the sky above them. Jane grabbed onto a chunk of her hair which was no longer silky blonde, but a dark chocolate brown.
“Do you see this shit? What in all that’s holy is going on with me?” Jane’s voice rose an octave. Michael looked down from the screaming girl.
“I’m sorry Jane,” Michael whispered, running a hand through his own hair. “Sit down and quit pulling out your hair,” Jane glared mockingly.
“Oh yes—let’s just sit around while my world is shattering. What the fuck am I? What are you?” Her voice came out angry. The shock seemed to be wearing off.
“This is your fault!” Jane growled, pointing her finger accusingly at her father. He shook his head.
“No—” Michael winced. “It most certainly isn’t.”
Jane screeched and grabbed the nearest object— a glass of orange juice. The pulp swiveled at the bottom of the cup before it shattered near her feet.
“Why are you breaking all of the glass?” Michael sighed, rubbing his temples.
“Because . . .” Jane whispered, her voice shaking. Her head went down. “Maybe the broken glass’ll tell me what’s going on. We both know you aren’t.”
“Jane,” Michael attempted to get out of his seat, but she snapped up too quickly.
“That wasn’t an invitation for you to come near me,” Her voice was filled with contempt.
“How can I even trust you? You don’t even look fucking human,” Michael stood up from his chair, Jane taking a step back as he walked closer. His eyes blazed crimson in the light and Jane remembered all of the cheesy vampire novels she had read all throughout her childhood.
“You aren’t some freaky vampire, right?” Jane questioned. Michael snorted. “Can I take that as a ‘no’?” Michael shook his head.
“Vampires don’t exist, Jane, I thought I had taught you that. You read too much.” Jane blushed.
“Then what are you?”
A small, sad smile crossed Michael’s face. “I. . . I am what you see, nothing more, nothing less.”
A moment passed without either of the two speaking.
“W-what are those?” Jane asked, her voice small. She pointed her chin to the boxes. A small sliver of paper fluttered by.
“Sit down,” Michael pointed to one of the hard chairs, sitting himself back in the other. Quickly Jane walked forward, all but throwing herself into the chair. Jane tapped her fingers lightly against the wood; under them was the letter which had been delivered onto the front step, along with the secret.
“Who’s Hallie?” Jane questioned, her eyes scanning the letter. The ‘H’ was elegantly twisted, a beautiful myriad of squiggles. She ran her darkened fingers across the page; the ink did not smear like a new letter would have.
“She was your mother,” Michael sighed. Jane didn’t look up. Her fingers continued to run patterns across the stark-white paper.
Jane took a minute before asking another question. “And Michael is . . . ?”
Michael’s eyes shifted away from his daughter to the window. Outside a storm raged on, ignorant to the two people inside of the home. The tree, a ghost of what a true tree was, swung in the intense winds.
“My name is Michael Lovar.” Michael stated, running a hand through his black locks again. Jane looked pensive for a moment.
“Why are your eyes red?”
Michael gritted his teeth together. “The same reason yours have changed,” The man said vaguely.
“And that would be?”
Burgundy eyes became slits. “Would you take the words ‘magic’ seriously?” Jane snorted in response.
“Hey, you were the one that said vampires didn’t exist. Why the Hell should magic?”
The man sighed again. Slowly Michael pushed his sleeve over his left wrist up. On pale white skin black writing pulsed.
”’Atrum curator’,” Jane mumbled, her eyes trained on the words. One finger hesitantly touched the tattoo. “What does that mean?”
“Dark Guardian,” Michael pulled his arm away and began to rub his own fingers against the stain on his wrist. “Each person is ‘branded’ with one depending on whom they are chosen to protect.” His deep voice cut off. His red eyes met Jane’s.
“Protect? Who did you have to protect?” But this question recieved no answer.
“Are we in some type of ‘Magical Witness Protection Program’?” Jane asked, accepting that her last question was being obviously ignored. The teenager rubbed her knuckles against her forehead. Several aspirins were needed, desperately.
Michael smiled shortly. “No, if there was such a place we would not be in the situation we’re in.”
Jane’s knuckles stopped moving. “What do you mean ‘situation’? Is someone coming after us?” Michael shook his head violently, his short hair flying.
“No one is after us. They couldn’t possibly. Vincent was much more thorough,” a mocking smile flitted across Michael’s handsome feature for a moment, “than to allow one of them to be a threat.” Jane began to draw her strange patterns again, this time only to occupy her fingers. They felt like iron bars.
“You know,I always was convinced that there must have been something wrong with us.” Jane mused before asking a question which had been puncturing her stomach for a while.
“Why are you telling me all of this? I mean, there’s gotta be some type of clause in this whole thing. You’ve never told me more than what was needed, and now you’re spilling what seems to be your darkest secret?” Jane stopped her movements for a split second. “Hey, what does this ‘Vincent’ guy have over you?” Jane demanded.
Michael faltered. It took a moment for Michael to come up with a verbal answer. “I wouldn’t be telling you this unless I thought it was important. In all honesty, I’d rather not tell you, but thanks to certain forces I have little choice. . .” A small crack of thunder was heard.
“Vincent. . . he was never the type of guy one fucked around with; he was stubborn to a tee and had a knack for getting out of tight situations. He was my best friend, he . . .” Michael took in a deep breath.
Words bubbled out, forming a story which had so desperately been clawing out for sixteen years, words which had never surfaced before. Words of such pain, desperation, and suffering came out of hiding, revealing a world which few knew existed. In the center of this eclipsing nightmare sat a teenager with a story none could hold a candle to, a teenager who woke up one morning not expecting the world to shatter right in front of him. He was a teenager who, like Jane, was not informed of how quickly life can change in an instant.
“His name was Vincent Beltryn.”
And with those small five words, Vincent Beltryn opened his eyes.
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