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John,
I know you’ll never see this but, I need to write it so—
After the accident, after you left that hospital, I saw hell. I know, it sounds overdramatic but it's not. The things they did to me in that lab, the things they did to us in that lab I don't know if I’d wish that on my worst enemy.
Even after I was free I was a host for a spirit that I didn't agree to have living inside me. It’s invasive having something poke around in your brain while you sleep, bringing up memories for God knows why. But, I got to see you again, to touch you again, to kiss you again. Too bad we both knew those weren't real.
You told me to move on, to get over you, but you knew I couldn't. Not fully. As cliché and lovesick as it sounds, I still dream about you. Real dreams not— not the dreams that we shared.
I got a new partner though, I told you about them a little. At first, I thought of them as another fucking handicap, another thing to add on top of the crushing weight that was—that is my self-loathing. I told myself they didn't care about me, that they were only in it for themselves. And 63 goddamn years later I finally began to understand them. I still don't know what they are or why they care about me but they're here and it doesn't seem like they'll be leaving anytime soon.
There’s someone else I wish you could’ve met. I was first introduced while they were on the run from The Bureau. It was eye-opening, to say the least. Their name is Danny, Danny the Street. They are a living, gender-queer, sentient street. Where people like us are celebrated, not shunned. If that sounds insane it's because it is. Before all this, before the accident, I never would have believed I’d be singing karaoke with a drag queen in a 24/7 cabaret show hosted by a fucking street. But I did. And holy shit John, it was so fun.
Me writing this doesn't have a real purpose. It just felt right, y’know? Like when you’d break through the cloud layer and all you could see was a sea of cotton. Part of you wants to jump out and see if you’d be able to stand, but the nagging, adult part says you should just do your job.
I took your handkerchief on the botched test flight. Might be melded into my skin for all I know. But it gave me peace up there. I could just look at it and you’d be with me. Mechanic John Bowers. My knight in a standard-issue, grease-stained jumpsuit.
I’d like to think things ended well for us but I was scared. I could’ve fucking visited you whenever I wanted but I was a coward and an idiot, and to tell you the truth I was terrified of how you’d react. To the new me. The new us. It took one hell of a shove to even get my ass over there. I’m glad I did though.
I haven’t been normal since the day I was born. But I wanted to be normal so badly that I tried to pretend I was. It hurt more than it helped, and I’m sorry. I’m sorry for running from who I am. I’m sorry for pushing you away because I was a coward.
The time we shared on this fucked up, nonsensical sphere we call home was a gift, and I still love you. I think I always will.
Best Regards, Captain Trainor