Dialogue with Them

The Received Email

The first class of the day was Mr. Kerry's World Civilization History, a staple course in high school. I adeptly propped up my book to create the appearance of attentiveness, seated at the very back of the room. To the teacher, I was the kind of student who barely registered, which meant I never worried about him catching on to my little distractions. I never aspired for straight As; completing the required twenty-four subjects and securing my diploma before graduation was my ultimate goal.

For someone who spent her previous life confined to a sickbed, returning to school didn't offer much of an advantage. These textbooks continuously challenged my fragile memory and comprehension abilities.

In Intley, I don't have many friends, and among the few I do, there isn't a single peer of my age. At a time when I should have been blending in with the children of Intley, I found myself obsessively collecting books on life and delving into nebulous, dark topics. Not even the appearance of a seven or eight-year-old could mask the listless aura of adulthood I carried; to those elementary schoolers, I might as well have been a grim, unclean witch.

In the town of Intley, any peer was well aware that Ethel was gloomy and entirely an oddity. My behavior in childhood was enough to keep all the boys and girls I grew up with at a considerable distance, so I never harbored any illusions about making a warm, enthusiastic young friend.

Dodging everyone's gaze, I began to open my email app to check for messages from a pen pal known only as E. In our exchanges, he never disclosed his real name, always preferring to refer to himself as E, the uppercase letter standing fifth in the alphabet.

I've speculated about his real name, but it was just a wild guess. The meaning of 'E' is too broad—ranging from a failing grade, the element iron, to an "E" chord in music.

He doesn't tell, and I don't ask; the mystery of a pen pal isn't reason enough for my curiosity to pry.

Opening his reply, I found a drawing—a depiction of the superhero Spider-Man scratching his head. Oddly enough, every piece of artwork he sends me is in black and white.

I couldn't help but laugh silently. I remember, in the early days of our email exchanges, this person scorned any form of entertainment outside of classical paintings, classical music, and opera. Instead, he had a profound interest in the niche area of ancient Greek drama. For someone like that to send me a drawing of a superhero was utterly amusing.

Thinking about it, it's been almost three years since our first conversation. Time has flown yet stretched long, and the 'Old-Timer' who loves classical art has been cajoled by my chatter into drawing superheroes for me.

I slipped my phone back into my backpack, intending to focus on the class. When this person first started emailing me, aside from the subject line typed in digital text, the rest of the content was written with a quill on parchment and sent as an attachment. I've always suspected it was done intentionally, a way to flaunt a sense of depth and sophistication.

The text was in an ornate English script, pleasing to the eye but dizzying to follow for extended periods. The flourishes were particularly exaggerated, leading me to wonder if this person always writes this way, both ostentatious and pretentious.

The body of the text was in ink far bolder than that of an average person's writing—Dear Ethel: "I wonder if you received the list of stock investments I sent you last time. Of course, whether you received it or not, the outcome of that list is irrelevant to you, since you never plan to leave your secluded, impoverished, and utterly insignificant little village to spend even a penny on any asset you can't see."

My hand trembled involuntarily at the memory of indeed receiving a list from E last time. He often pitied my apparent poverty, unable to fathom how someone could wander about in a two-year-old jacket, and thus took it upon himself to thrust such information upon me, urging me to learn investing.

My interest in material things is minimal, and I believe that all investments carry risks, which I prefer to avoid. Besides, I have no interest in or understanding of the stock market. The situation was further complicated when my computer succumbed to water damage during a particularly rainy period in Intley. My reluctance to go out and get it fixed meant that the matter of investing, like my computer, was eventually left unresolved.

However, it's strange how he knew I hadn't purchased any stocks.

Continuing to read, E began to complain about the people around him again.

"My Ethel, you can't possibly imagine how dreadful my life has been lately, as if every day outside my window is cloudless and the sun shines so brightly it makes me want to kill something. That i***t M is opposing my decisions again, and I've grown tired of his antics over what feels like centuries. Two weeks ago, I sat next to him to see how long he could stay still, and I find myself still sitting beside him to this day."

"Lately, I've been contemplating setting the house on fire, biting him half to death, and then hanging him upside down in the bell tower for the sun to scorch. His feeble and powerless demeanor by then would certainly be amusing."

"Oh no, I must learn patience, lest I find myself easily dangling from the bell tower. Although I'm certain he could never do me in, just as I couldn't him."

"It's quite a dull fact, isn't it? No one but you knows of my rigorous training. I'm not yet quick enough to stop that fool M, but I'm certain that once I break through this plateau, he might not stand a chance against me."

"These fools ruined my paintings for the month, forcing me to pick up the brush and start over recently. M only cares about his company, leaving these idiots unpunished, with not a single person in the household being of any use."

Mr. Kerry's voice was as soothing as a lullaby, his lessons frequently meandering off course. I faintly listened to whatever subject he was discussing.

E has complained about his brother M countless times; he must hold a deep affection for him. I'm so certain that, for him, there seems to be no one else in the world who can capture his attention quite like M does, albeit in a manner filled with disdain and malintent.

The last line of the Email wasn't as neat as the beginning, which was tidy as if printed. It's as though the act of expressing care for me would cause him discomfort.

With handwriting that veered from overly forceful to chaotic yet aesthetically pleasing—"Are you sure you want to stay in Intley, waiting for death? There are places with me suitable for human habitation, where you'll never have to worry about dangers that fall outside the rules. If one day your mind finally sees reason, remember to ask me for the list. Lest by the time my next letter arrives, your parched corpse has already been stuffed beneath the roots of a tree."

"Your true friend, E."

I don't want to move at all, dear E.

I've long grown accustomed to his tone, which ranges from haughty to downright acerbic. Over the years, our correspondence has given me some insight into E's family situation, assuming, of course, he hasn't been lying through his teeth.

He enjoys describing his life in an exaggerated and humorous tone. I've gathered that he has an older brother, M, who owns his own company and manages the family's assets, along with a host of guests of unclear identity, leading a life of luxury.

The Email sent to me began with a subtle and noble elegance in writing, but now I've become so familiar with them that each time I open an envelope, I roughly know what to expect: pages filled with the nagging and complaints of an old gossip. Except for the fancy handwriting, there's nothing left that could be called noble or splendid about him.

I remember once he sent me a letter that contained only one sentence: "Even if I'm full of lies, I am truthful only to you."

I was so moved I almost burst into tears; having such a friend really makes one believe in a friendship that lasts forever. After that, his email began to grow longer, to the point where he even sent me drafts of his research on art topics at their most extensive.

And the purpose of his sending those letters was merely to flaunt the depth of his erudition, coupled with a serving of mockery and disdain directed at me.

Alright, over time I've come to realize that he simply wanted a so-called friend to serve as a sounding board. Because he has to maintain his nobility at home, he finally found someone with whom he has no vested interests and has never met but feels he can trust. Thus, he can freely vent his grievances and whimsically complain.

This is the chasm between being touched and facing reality.