A letter from Mother Grace’s son

I am in trouble, Julie. There are memories of blood that are instilled in my soul.
Mother Grace quoth once during spring that to be knitted is to set the self free,
wherein I sit days, you know the house, with spiders, food that shares a dull smell.
I shoved my arm to eat, my legs to walk, my mind to love again,
but alas, all my golden wishes shunned me, tottering.

Mother Grace called me last night and witnessed my seething.
I spoke to her. I told her that all that has been said is unanimous.
But Julie, I am becoming anything but the old self.
Now, I wear a tie and a suit. At times, I wear the old attire to feel rested.
I am sorry, I am lousy at many, but I am remaining with my choices.

Tell Mother Grace that a man made of such dirt is pristine to himself, not necessarily to all.
Tell her not to worry. My sins are against the definition of relove.
Julie, I have had to end the lives of twelve men, eight women, and four children.
How unearthly could your love and Mother Grace’s be to take me home?
Know me as I say this, my last words. I am in trouble, but that is fair.

- Debesh Kar