Rating: PG-13 for mentions of cannibalism
Summary: Ryan is a boy on the trail to California about to die, so he writes a letter in an effort to not be forgotten.
Disclaimer: No, Ryan isn't dieing and Brendon isn't the son of a butcher. Ryan and Brendon are out of their zone, okay? AU. This story is based off of one of America's most famous tragedies, the Donner Party. I'm not supposed to be on the computer at 12:40 AM writing slash about it, but whatever.
To whoever finds this letter,
Forsooth, I was never really one for writing letters or journals, but the truth needs to be told. Like many others, I fear to die. I do not fear the actual passing, no. I fear of not being remember, I suppose it’s what everyone wants; to be remembered and not stay forgotten.
My name is Ryan Ross. I am of fifteen years of age. I used to have a mother, a father, a sister and two brothers. Now all I have left is my older brother, Jacob. First, my younger brother, William had died. He’d always been a sickly child, so it was not much of a surprise that he had passed so early in this. My mother had but just had dear little Sarah, when both were taken by the cold. They made us eat her. They made my brothers and I eat our mother and our small, infant sister. My father feasted upon their flesh without hesitation. He soon had perished as well, the cold finally getting to him, leaving but Jacob and I to fend for our own. I felt ill when I had to eat him, but in a way, I felt sort of victorious. My father had never had any faith in me, so it felt slightly wonderful when he passed. Though now, I feel as though my end is coming soon.
I was never quite a normal boy. I didn’t ever want to go out and play the silly games my brothers participated in, instead, staying in and reading most days away. I always felt a pleasant satisfaction when I had finished reading yet another novel, like when the other boys finally pin the other down when they wrestle. I remember one boy in particular who’d always caught my eye, he’d always send a small wink my way when he caught my gaze, as if we had a secret no other person knew of. He was the butcher’s boy, Brendon, I do recall. He was a handsome lad, lithe, but with muscle, full, ever pink lips, deep, chocolate eyes, a strong nose and jaw, he got all the girls fancies, and mine as well. I know that I shall go to hell for this, for my liking of this boy, but it felt so right, so natural, more natural than anything else. He never spoke to me, but always with that small, subtle wink.
My mother never liked the butcher’s son. She had always wanted me to marry with the shoemaker’s daughter. She was a haughty, proud, pigheaded sort of lass, inconsiderate, but graceful and beautiful, and very well good liar. She could have possibly been a stage actress if she had the mind to stick to it, she mood and decisions always changing. That’s why, even if I wasn’t in love with the butcher’s son, I would have never been capable to marry such a woman, with her incapability to be considerate or to think of others or inability to stick to one thing at a time, I with my empathy and understanding and focus. But all the boys had eyes for her, all but sweet Brendon with his delightful winks. My brothers had eyes for the shoemaker’s daughter, all boys did, but she did not feel the same. She wanted me, the unattainable one, the one who did not give into her looks.
At one point, Brendon did talk to me. We talked for a long time, and we talked many times after that. We go behind the shed in his back yard, and we talked till his mother would yell for him to go back home. Once, he kissed me. It was wonderful, everything I imagined and more. From that point on, we’d kiss every time he had to go back home. It became route of us. This went on for weeks, until my father decided to go to California to be in the open. Brendon could not leave his family, he was needed, and his father would never take the move, for he had too good a business here, in Springfield, in Illinois, not in California. I always promised that I would come back for him, but I do not believe that I will make it through the rest of the winter. I hope that he reads this letter, to know how I feel, how I have always felt for him, and so that he knows what has happened to me.
We had made our way not as well as we had hoped for through the untaken paths, we got lost many of times upon it. For a period, we had separated from part of the group, before finally catching up to them once again. We’d lost much time when we separate and had taken different routes. My thoughts often wandered to Brendon, back in Springfield. We became snowbound on a pass, and this is where we are now. Fourteen have already set out for help, but I am doubtful that it will come. I have the feeling that we will all soon perish up in this snowy pass, but that is just the pessimistic side of me coming through. I know that there is some small chance that we could perhaps make it through this ordeal alive, but surely not the same. We will all be changed, for we have fed from the flesh of another. We shall all surely burn for it.
I often wish that Brendon will ride up to be on a pure white stallion and take me home behind the shed and hold be, speaking beautiful words on how we shall never be parted again, how we shall be one for all of ever. These are only the things I wish and dream for, though, I know that this will never come to pass. If I do even make it out alive, I shall go back to my beloved Brendon, back to the shed where we belong. My brother is all I have left though, I doubt that he’d ever want me to return to him after I have eaten flesh like an animal.
I constantly feel weak though. I am still quite doubtful that I will wake up again if I shut my eyes. Though, I want to shut them, in hopes that maybe, I’ll be with my Brendon again. It doesn’t feel cold anymore. I feel so warm all of a sudden, and I asked my brother if he felt warm too. He says no, but I’m not listening anymore. I feel tired and warm, warm for the first time in months. I’m going to fall asleep soon, warm, and with thoughts of Brendon, the butcher’s son.
If anyone does find this letter, think me not as an evildoing sodomite who fed upon flesh in his final hours. Remember me as Ryan, the boy who loves the butcher’s son.