Dearest Future Caledonia,
I do not know if you will live to see this letter, but I pray you do.
Tonight is the night and it felt appropriate to mark the event with a letter. Father would say I'm a fool for writing this down, but we know what we think of father. Besides, are we not old enough to be independent of him?
He would say if we are independent of him that we should be dependent on another man. Perhaps you are, my dearest future self, but you are not tonight. Tonight, you will be truly free.
Not free in the sense that you thought you were when you went to that party, that was just a first taste. Oh yes, that was a lively Hallow's Eve filled with costumes, masks both real and imagined, wine, and even some spirits. It was then that you made your choice. Do not forget that. Hallow's Eve is a holy day for you. It revealed the chains that your father had on you and what it felt like to be unshackled if only briefly.
You raised Hell that night with all the other youth. It was magical. You danced as though virtue was no concern. You drank as though moderation was a disease. You talked and even flirted as though modesty was a thing of the past and, perhaps, it is now for you. But what's more, it showed you what life could be.
The spirits infiltrated the party, both jovial and dire. They spoke in whispers and snuck their way into your drinks. They told you of a way out. Of a way for this to be your permanent life. A life lived instead of controlled.
You believed them and sought out the old woman they mentioned. She welcomed you kindly and provided you with what you needed to free yourself of father. Whether it will work is another story, but the spirits and the old woman seemed adamant that this was not only the best way forward, it was the only way forward.
The old woman you'd heard of before, in snickers of fellow townsfolk. She was mad said they. To be pitied said others. To be feared whispered a few. Yet no one seemed to pay too much care to her. Though, somehow, she maintained a house on the outskirts of town. She fed and clothed herself, perhaps not opulently, but sufficiently.
This you noticed when you visited her home. It was not large, but it was tidy and one person living alone does not need so much space. Her home smelled of spices and herbs you had only caught on the wind when the nobles were having their lavish parties. How she obtained them, you did not know--perhaps you do now.
She mixed you a substance and gave you precise instructions that had to be followed to the letter. Her eyes were kind and her voice soothing. She was like the grandmother you never knew. You did not see the madness that people spoke of. She did not seem to need pity. The glint off of her too-white teeth though did evoke some fear in you. But, her promises of freedom were too great to pass up.
You walked home and father berated you for being out so late alone. What will people think, a woman alone at night? They will make assumptions. They will whisper. They will scorn. But no one had taken a second look at you. Plenty of other ladies walked alone that night. And besides, you were not alone, the spirits were with you.
Perhaps it is the spirits that move this very quill that compelled you to put this tale to ink and paper. It could stand to incriminate you, but somehow that does not matter to you now. It is freeing to write this down, to reveal the plan if only to my future self.
But now, I must hurry. The substance must be mixed into his drink and dinner. Then, I shall free us.
I hope to catch up with you.
I hope you read this letter and then burn it.
I hope you are free.
If not, at least you have tried.
Love,
Past Caledonia
(Prompt by ChatGPT)
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