Roses on the River

By Cara Reeder

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If you are reading this, dear Theoden, then I have truly gone mad. Because, you see, you are dead. People say you are mad when you talk to yourself. But I am clearly not mad, because I am not talking to myself...I’m talking to you, Theoden. However, I do know that you can’t be reading this. Because you’re dead. And that’s a fact.
That’s a fact. Fact. Fact. Fact.
I don’t like facts. They’re so tasteless, so bitter. People spit them around like they’re a religion. Or perhaps a particular curse word to dwell on, contemplate, feel in one’s soul, then spit out at the right moment to attack one unexpectedly and triumphantly. But facts are blind. They only see things on the surface level. They trick you into having a sense of control. But I do not fall for these tricks so easily. I’ve always had this gift, to see things beneath the surface, to see all the grays that make people so uncomfortable. But you know this, Theoden. Because I have already told you.