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25 June, 2030
Dear Clarisse,
It’s definitely been a while, hasn’t it? Now, I know this letter won’t get
to you, seeing as you’re probably good as dead. But I felt like I needed
to write this. I can’t shake the feeling that somewhere out there, you are
watching me. I figured you need to know what it’s like from my side of
things.
Ever since we talked that first time down the alley…what you said to me
all stuck out. You ripped away my happiness like a curtain at a play.
And a part of me, the part of me that sees all those lonely, dusty plains,
the part of me that mistakes glimmers of light on oceans for a Hound’s
metallic shine…that part of me resents you for it. I catch myself
wondering what it would have be like to have never met you, to have
passed by you that night. I would have still had my house for one. And
my wife. And my job.
I’m glad I met you.
Because that house was for the most part a mere tool for Mildred’s
escapism fantasies. My wife sold me out, and most likely hasn’t felt
anything like love toward me for years by then. And my job…I thought
it made me happy. I was wrong. Instead, I gained a far greater thing than
any of those constants in my life. I gained understanding. I found
something I never thought I’d have. In those books I was forced to burn,
I found purpose.
No matter what really happened to you, you’re someone I could never
dream of forgetting. Thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
Thank you for ripping off the mask that night.
Well wishes,
Guy Montag, your friend.