The old typewriter had a mind of its own. The keys pushing themselves down as my fingers hovered over them. They say type-written letters are more personal. The courier font may seem aloof, and the shaky print of a hand-written confession sprinkled with salty tears may carry more emotion, but it takes a lot of effort to find a working, refurbished, vintage typewriter from the early twentieth century. Please remember that when you read these words:
I’m sorry I killed our son before he ever breathed his first breath of life, and I’m sorry that it was the cause of your constant unprovoked blows to my battered body in the years that followed. Please find a place in your blackened heart to forgive me so that you and your new bride may find peace.
I bury my tear soaked face into the freshly inked paper, partially smearing it; this is my emotion. I wasn’t invited to the wedding—I overheard your news at a church picnic—so you will probably never see this letter. But maybe in five years, at our high school reunion, I’ll slip it, unnoticed, into your pocket while you prance your wife around in the same gymnasium we conceived in.
This is part of Mondays Finish the Story: finish the story using 100-150 words (I went a bit over), not including the sentence provided. Below is the photo prompt and the opening sentence. Click the froggy icon to read other stories and add your own!
“The old typewriter had a mind of its own . . .”