(A whisper: five)
Father,
It is good to be able to write to you using the calligraphy they teach here. My own adaptation of it, in fact, which I have worked on with great diligence and zeal.
I will forego further pleasantries; you will not entertain them.
(A growl: four)
I will also forego recriminations; I am sure you had reasons for delivering me to the monks against my will, knowing full well the reputation of this place.
They are devilishly hard masters. Or simply devils, some would say. I wonder how much you knew of their true teachings.
(A shuddering breath: three)
I do not expect you to heed me now, of course. That time has passed. But it is important that I state this plainly: practices occur here that countenance not one wayward word, and punishments that no untainted man could have devised.
Already, I am deeply changed from the boy you raised. I will never again be the same.
(A sigh: two)
And nor will you. Here we come to the crux of it. Do you feel it yet? A stirring of your cold blood?
Do not fear a sudden rush of remorse at the rawness of my words. No, father. This is merely everything I have learned, poured into one short letter. A sacrifice I make in turn.
(A quiet laugh: one)
Likely you now feel the fire that follows the hot flush, as the ink transferred to your skin begins to wither your nerves and blacken your bones. It is potent stuff, and for you, I have made it more so.
While it is unlikely to be a comfort at this critical stage, be assured you will not have to feel it for long.
I remain your attentive son,
Jeremiah
