I don’t want to be Albert the agnostic. I have to write this out of my system. When I’m finished, I’ll destroy it and write her a real letter. It might seem stupid to write to someone I could speak to in person, but when I look into her green eyes, I become tongue-tied. The way she arches her right eyebrow and smiles with a smile as hot as her flaming red hair, I just can’t talk to her. She offers me herself, and all I can do is tell her about my religion. She was the first sight I beheld after the operation. They did what they could for my face, but I didn’t need to look in a mirror to realize I had permanent scars. My face still burns. It will burn forever from the new valleys and ridges etched into my forehead and cheeks and chin. I suppose there is consolation in not being as ugly as an imp. Of course, I’ll have a head start if I’m ever turned into a zombie. I know it’s wrong to worry about my appearance when I could have been blind for the rest of my life. May God forgive my vanity.
