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Depersonalized - "Dearest sister"

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The light "pitter patter" of rain echos off the tin roof.
A butane lamp dimly lights the room of a small shack. 
If you were outside you would see the hum of the glow creep through the window.
The essence of it lingering like a kiss in the dark.

Within the room sits a desk, an old chair resting inches before it.
The sound of foot steps on wood echo and creep towards the chair.

A broad shouldered man, the source of the noise, poses himself onto the chair. 
The chair gives out a grunt in reaction to the change in weight.
Settled, the figure flicks a piece of paper and a pencil onto the desk.

A strike of a lighter and the crackle of burning paper fills the atmosphere.
The man ex-hails letting a
ploom of smoke fill the room. 

He places the lighter upon the desk, it emits a light thud.
His fingers drift across the paper eventually meeting the pencil beside it.
Thinking to himself for a moment, his fingers kiss the pencil with question. 
Eventually They intertwine with the graphited stick, the tip greets the paper.

He begins to write, his voice fills his head, speaking in his mother tongue as he composes words onto the page. 

"Дорогая сестра...."
He writes in cursive.

"Сколько времени прошло с тех пор, как я в последний раз писал вам?" 
"Может, лет?"

"Тем не менее, я скучаю по тебе!"

"Я не знаю, что тебе писать."
"Я не знаю, что вас спросить."
"На самом деле, я пишу это себе."
"Я чувствую, что это заставляет меня чувствовать себя ближе к тебе."
"Наша старая традиция."
"Эти письма."

He would take another deep in hail of his cigarette, using his free hand to support it.

"Если бы это письмо могло дойти до вас, я бы задал те же вопросы, что и раньше."
"Но я знаю правду, этого никогда не произойдет." 
"Тем не менее, я пишу это для себя, но все слова для вас."

"Как вы, моя дорогая сестра и наша мать?"
"как наша собака, Аня?"
"Как твоя учеба?"

A tear would roll down his face and pierce the fibers of the paper.

"Любые новые парни, от которых мне нужно избавиться, как старые времена?"
"Или, может быть, вы наконец нашли хороший?"

His eyes clouded, he would use his free arm to wipe them.
Resting his pencil onto the paper, he collapses his face into the palms of his hands.
For moments he sits in silence nothing but the rain to greet the static in his head.
Then, a sob.

The nearly finished cigarette falls from his mouth colliding with the desk. 
The light it once emitted quickly diminishes upon impact.

Strength within his arms fade as fatigue from despair takes over. 
His head would slump onto the desk, the edge of the paper now part of his pillow. 
He would drag his left hand down to the paper he rests upon, slowly sliding it from under his cheek.
The paper sits inches before his eyes, he would run his fingers along the words he has wrote, slowly closing his eyes as his fingers trace the paper.

"Спокойной ночи, сестра."
He hushfully whimpers to the paper.


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Easy to follow and nice text to the story. Kinda getting a feeling for the story from it good job! 

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This is wonderful, per usually, UnkieB! ? Glad to see you back and writing again!

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A single tear B, nicely done.

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Oh, B. 

My heart. ?

So nicely written.

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