Feel free to read my letters. Who knows, one of them might even be meant for you.
English is my first language. I believed it to be the language of my parents, until my mother turned out to be Norwegian. From the time she relocated me from London, I only spoke english with my father. Every night, I’d close my eyes and tell him about my day, about my brother, my mother, my new life. I could clearly see the words forming strands of light that found their way through the cracks between the window and the sill and flew off to cross the North Sea.
Only when I was grown did I discover my father was in fact Gaelic.
Still, English is the language some of these letters must be written in. It might not be perfect, my english, but it is mine, carried within me and protected with the passion of a child who has lost everything else.
Arne is not my real name. It is a pseudonym for my pseudonym. I am writing to relieve myself, not to burden my family. And then, of course, being anonymous allows me to write about my ex-boyfriend without destroying his life. If his family finds out that he’s a fag, they might actually literally kill him. Or me. Or both. I often suggest we kill them first, but he simply will not listen to reason.
I live in Norway. I will not tell you where – either you have never heard of the place, or you might be related to me, and thus able to deduce my identity. I realize I sound paranoid, but I am related to a great many people I’ve never met and you never know who dabbles in genealogy. Also, not giving up my location means I can write about my job. I am a teacher. Confidentiality means I can hardly ever share stories from work and like most grown-ups I really love to talk about my children. They are, after all, the best and brightest kids ever. Except when they are possessed by devils and demons, or when they have simultaneously have had their brains eaten by worms at night. It happens.