Work Text:
‘Dear Mac,’
Mac lifted his pen from the notebook he had resting on his thighs and tapped it on the page in front of him harder than a contemplative gesture warranted. The blue biro left little dents in the piece of paper that Mac tried to smooth over with his palm. The paper was blank except for those two words.
He was doing his English homework. Mac’s teacher had asked her students to write a letter addressed to themselves in five years’ time and to see the way Ms Fellows had smiled at her class after she’d announced their assignment anyone would have thought she’d given them a treat. At least she hadn’t added, ‘And have fun!’ after she’d explained the task.
Mac huffed as he rearranged the pillows he’d put between his back and his bed’s wooden headboard. His dad wasn’t home. The white streaked cornflower sky visible from his bedroom window was quickly deepening into dusky indigo so it looked like it was going to be one of those nights when his dad didn’t come home at all. With the house all to himself Mac could have sat at the kitchen table to do his homework but he preferred the comfort of his bedroom. He was old enough to be by himself at night, he wasn’t a scared little kid, but he felt an uncomfortable weight on the back of his neck when he walked around his empty home after dark as if he was about to be spotted doing something he shouldn’t be, and it was better to stay in his room. Everything he needed was in there anyway.
Mac pursed his lips and tipped his head back searching the ceiling for inspiration.
In five years’ time he would be twenty years old. An adult. He’d be in college, hopefully. And he’d be taller and broader. Hopefully. He wouldn’t stay skinny forever would he? Mac held out an arm and twisted his hand from side to side to watch the bones and muscles of his thin wrist shift under pale skin and blue veins. Jack said that Mac reminded him of a little bird, slender and light and always moving in busy little flurries, looking a breath away from taking flight. Jack said that Mac would grow bigger and stronger if he ate more. Jack said that things would get better as Mac grew older.
“My teenage years? Ooof!” Jack had let out a breath in a noisy whoosh. “Not the funnest time of my life. Well,” he’d prevaricated slowly, “some of the times were a lot of fun but some of them were confusing, overwhelming, underwhelming and I had no idea what I was doing most days. Course I mostly don’t know what I’m doing now,” he’d said, managing to frown and look ruefully amused at the same time, “but I know enough to have an idea of what things might work and to be able to look like I know what I’m about if anyone’s watching.” Jack had grinned at Mac then and dropped a hand on his shoulder, adding “You’ll be fine, kiddo,” and with the warm weight of Jack’s affection resting on his arm Mac believed he might be right.
Mac tapped his pen against his chin. In five years’ time his chin would need shaving, he thought. He rubbed at his cheeks with his empty hand wondering what it would be like to feel the rasp of stubble against his fingers. Maybe he’d have to shave every day. Maybe he wouldn’t shave and instead would let the stubble grow out along his cheeks and jaw like Jack sometimes did. He liked it when Jack did that, it made him look friendly somehow, relaxed and carefree. He’d grin at Mac, his white teeth contrasting with his dark beard, and Mac would feel comforted. Mac wondered if he’d look like Jack did if he let stubble cover his cheeks - friendly and cheerful and nice. He thought perhaps not, his hair was fair and he didn’t think he could embody the same content solidity that Jack did.
Mac twitched and shifted restlessly on top of his sheets sending some of the pens from the pencil case lying on the bed next to him spilling out and rolling towards his calves. He looked down at the new dents he’d just put into his piece of paper. What would twenty year old Mac be doing and thinking, he wondered? What would he want to hear from the person he’d been at fifteen?
Mac grunted, slapped his pad of paper down on his bed, jammed his fists into his duvet and pushed himself upright then walked over to his bedroom window to draw his curtains. Darkness had truly fallen outside, the street lights were on and the houses on Mac’s block glowed behind their closed blinds and locked doors, the families inside them tucked up safe and tight from the cold night air. Mac would have to remember to secure his own front door and take the key out of the lock so his dad could unlock it when he got home. He would get angry if he thought Mac had been irresponsible or thoughtless.
Sometimes on the mornings after the nights when his dad hadn't come home he would arrive back at the house at first light looking rumpled and smelling of alcohol and stale sleeplessness. Sometimes his dad wouldn’t be back before Mac left for school and Mac wouldn’t see him until the late afternoon when he would get home to find his father in his office nursing a mug of coffee and a headache. Mac had learned it was best to avoid his dad on those evenings. He moved around the house as silently and unobtrusively as he could so as not to be seen, heard, or do any of the other things that angered his father. On those days he could get home and not speak to another person again until he arrived back at school the next day. Being utterly without human contact like that was almost like living alone, except Mac thought that someone who lived by themselves would probably be able to make a noise and even watch TV or listen to music without fearing the hair triggered frustration of anyone else.
Mac dropped heavily back onto his mattress making it’s springs squawk and the pens lying on the duvet bounce. He picked his pen and pad back up. When he was twenty he’d be living away from home. He wasn’t interested in joining a fraternity so he wouldn’t be living in a frat house with rooms stuffed full of other students. Maybe he would enjoy living alone, he thought. He crossed his legs, shuffled backwards until he was leant against his headboard and looked out at his small, neat room. He wouldn’t need a huge, fancy apartment, he wouldn’t care about sea views or being able to gaze out of his window over a sprawling cityscape, he’d be happy with a couple of rooms he could call his own with a sofa and a bed, a table and some bookshelves, some plants so there was something green and living in the space, and a fridge filled with food he wanted to eat.
His dad had been to the store the day before so Mac had been able to make himself dinner with food taken from packets that were still be full enough that he wouldn’t have to worry about the apple, the bread or the ham being missed and he couldn’t be accused of taking without asking, of being ungrateful or of sneaking around behind his father’s back.
In the future the kitchen of Mac’s home would be full of fruit and bread and ham and bacon and pancakes and pizza and cake and soup and pasta sauce and fajita kits and pies and chocolate muffins that he could eat whenever he wanted. He would have cereal for supper or chocolate for breakfast if he wanted. And maybe he would eat out some days even when his cupboards were full just because he felt like it and he could. His fridge would be full of leftovers that he would warm up and watch in front of the TV and he would try to make home made meals from scratch even though he had a feeling cooking wouldn’t come naturally to him. Cooking a meal in a kitchen made a home smell so good. Bozer’s house always smelled rich and homely when his mom cooked. And there would be things in Mac’s apartment too, things that didn’t serve a purpose but were there because Mac liked them, knick knacks and doo dads Jack called them. And if anything ever got broken it would be a mistake and not a problem. The shatter of breaking glass would only ever resound inside the walls of Future Mac’s home because something had been dropped or knocked. And it would be okay, just an accident, not scary.
The pipes in Mac’s bedroom wall knocked as the house settled, something that had happened many times before, but the dull clunk was different when he was on his own, louder. He didn’t mind being alone in his house - it was better when his dad wasn’t there – but when the house held only him he could feel like an intruder who needed to move with care to avoid discovery. He wouldn’t ever feel like that in his future home. He would feel like he belonged.
Mac looked down at his notebook. It was still blank except for his two opening words. Frustrated with himself for utterly failing to get his homework done he groaned and pulled a piece of paper from the back of his pad and started a list of the things that Future Mac might have that Present Mac wanted to talk to him about to help him collect his ragged thoughts and hopefully give him some sort of starting point for his letter. College, he wrote, Apartment, Independence, Autonomy. He rested his pen against his lips. Taller, he added to the list for something else to write, then Stronger, Wiser, Honest.
Mac stared at the last word on his list. Honest. Mac wasn’t a liar, he didn’t make up stories or cheat or anything, but he’d had to wear long sleeves again that day and Jack had noticed the marks they covered while Mac had been washing his hands, and when he’d clucked over the bruises Mac had said they’d come from tripping up the bleachers at school.
“Most people fall down stairs not up them, kiddo,” Jack had said as he’d ruffled Mac’s hair. “But I suppose it is just like you to be exceptional.”
Mac didn’t like lying. In five years’ time Mac wouldn’t have to lie about anything. Hopefully.
He couldn’t put that in his letter though.
He didn’t really know what Miss Fellows wanted him to say in the letter. Was he supposed to ask his future self something, remind him of something, offer advice, or say something cute that he’d find funny?
Five years felt like a long time. Twenty felt like an impossible, distant age that was way out of Mac’s reach. Most of the time he just focused on getting through the day, although since he’d started working at the stable he looked forward to spending time there. He missed the horses when he wasn’t with them and hoped that they were okay. Jack too. He wondered if in five years’ time he would live near a stable so he could visit it and smell the distinctive aromas of horses and hay, feel the seeking velvetiness of a soft muzzle against his hand and hear the crunch of hard, careful teeth gobbling up the treat he’d held out in an open palm. Hopefully he would.
He hoped that in five years’ time he’d have something that made him as happy as that. That was all Mac wanted, really, for his future self. For him to be happy. Happy and warm and not scared.
Happy, Mac wrote on his list. Then he underlined it twice with his red pen. Maybe he could talk about where he hoped twenty year old Mac was living in the letter or make some joke about technology in the future but Mac knew the main thing he wanted it to be about.
‘Dear Mac’ he began on a fresh piece of paper. He moved his pen down and added. ‘So what does the future look like? Do you own a leather jacket? Or your own house? Or a flying car?
I hope so.
And I hope you are happy’