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Letter

Letter

by SnowFlake

Rating: G
Copyright: SnowFlake
Summary: Murdock writes a letter
Disclaimer: None of these characters belong to me no matter how much I wish they did. Stephen J. Cannell and Universal own the guys and the show. I only borrow them and I have made no profit from writing this. If anyone wants to sue me, please don't! I'm terribly under- funded.
Warnings: none I can think of


November 23rd, 1984

Howdy Faceman! What's up? Surprise, surprise; a letter from your pal in the nut house. Well, it won't really be a surprise, not really. You'll never read this, 'cause I won't ever mail it, or show it to you. But today feels like a good day for writing so I'll write. I've got a brand new notebook, and some pens. Told them not to get pencils. Don't like pencils, the words are way too easy to erase if you use pencils. Like they were never there. And they're too gray. Don't need no more half-shades, real life has way too many as it is.

You said you'd swing by today. I sure hope you do. It'll be a good visit today; I'm strong today, focused. Feels like the insides of my head just been neatly sorted: anger in the third drawer, anxiety in the bottom one. Harmony gently folded (it's still a little fragile, gotta be careful) and placed within easy reach. Assorted fears arranged by color and hung to dry in the broom closet. Feels real good.

I should have a couple of hours before my head is just as big a mess as my room again. But I've read that order is the exception in the universe; every single particle strives towards chaos. I may be out of synch with the majority of the human race most of the time, but I pride myself on being more in tune with the universe than any of them.

If I close my eyes it's like everything is this blue color. Pale, powdery blue. Baby blue, but not quite. Never knew a color could be that relaxing. You have that color about you. Smooth and suave. Most of the time I'm pretty sure I'm this dull brown-gray. You know, the one you get if you mix all the colors when you're painting with watercolors. Did that last week in therapy, watercolors. Wouldn't give me acrylics. Guess they don't trust me with anything that might be harmful, even if it's just paint. But you don't really die from eating that kind of paint, you just get a little sick. Trust me, I know. Should've seen the faces of the orderlies when I got sick after chewing down the entire tube of 'Enchanting Emerald' last time we painted. It was totally worth feeling sick as a dog that night.

So how are you, Facey? I mean, how are you *really*? I don't ever ask you. I don't think you'd answer me if I did, anyway. Oh, sure you'd tell me everything was great; the apartment would be beautiful, the girl de jour would be such a fox, Hannibal would have stayed off the Jazz lately (with a relieved 'thank God' added), and Amy would say hi. Everything would be great, dandy, couldn't be better. But you never tell me the rest; you don't tell me about the worries about making the money last, or the nightmares, or being fed up with a life on the run. I know you are. I don't even bother looking for these things in your eyes anymore; those baby blues just tell me what you want me to see. But I can see it in your smile sometimes. I think you're pretty okay; your smile's been true lately.

Greetings, milord, your humble servant is back behind the pen. You've just left. I heard you rev the engine as you pulled out of the parking lot. You came in all fixed up, ready for some R&R with your latest blonde. Dropped off that physics book I asked for. And you brought that Kim Wilde record I like. And Big Reds. You know I love Big Reds. When you come you always make me feel, I don't know, like special.

But sometimes it's real easy to forget that feeling when you're stuck here for weeks and weeks on end without a word from you guys. Real easy. The mind starts playing tricks on you. Silly, stupid tricks. And I get scared that you'll leave me behind (I mean it's not like you really need a pilot most of the times) and that I'll lay in this bed when I'm 70, listening to the sound of shuffling slippers and the panicked screams of the ones here but not quite here. I don't mean to make you feel guilty about not coming here, I really don't. I'd just rather not be left behind, you know.

I forgot to tell you that I haven't had nightmares in a long time now. Not about 'Nam anyway. Now, about you, muchacho, that's different. I wake up with my heart trying to pound its way out of my chest; so scared I don't know what to do. So I get up. 6 long steps and one short from the door to the window, 6 long and one short back. Must be wearing a track in the carpet. I pace until the shakes are gone, and then just maybe I might be able to get back into bed. But even if I do, most of the time I can't sleep for a good two hours, so I tend to do most of my reading at night nowadays.

We walked around the grounds, you and me, and we talked. It wasn't raining then. I made you laugh. It feels so great; I don't think you'll ever know just how good it makes me feel to see you laugh. God knows you've worried enough over me. Don't want you to worry about me. I can handle worry, I've had a lot of experience with it. I don't want you to get used to it too. Might be too late for that though. 

I gotta scramble, Faceman, or there won't be any Jello left in the cafeteria. They've got the green kind today; saw it when we walked back to my room. Say hi to B.A. and Hannibal from me. Never mind, I think I'll say it myself, 'cause you're never gonna read this anyway. Be good, and take care of them. And don't forget to take care of yourself; you do that sometimes. And try to be nice to Amy. Hope you call again soon. I don't wanna worry. Call me.

Yours truly,

H.M Murdock, insane

 


Letter by SnowFlake

 

 


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