Eliza decided to write Alfred a letter because he tended to be confused about what she would say to him. She'd leave it hanging from the shower. His most sober moments tended to be in the morning when he took a shower.
My name is Eliza. That might seem like a casual repetition of a fact you already know, but I'm leaving you because you don't really get it. I never wanted to be primarily a woman, or your wife, or even a homosapien. I just wanted to be Eliza and to surround myself with others you recognize me as such. It is not primarily my mission in life to wash your dishes or stinky underwear. It is my mission to be me.
I am here, or am I? Some part of me has been married to you, trying moment by moment to recreate that original love that I had for you. But when you come home, day after day, drunk and stupid and mean, it is hard to be here, and I tend to live more in the positive aspects of my past, or in the hope I have for the future.
In a sense all of us Earthlings are here and everywhere. We host atoms who belong to everyone who is, was, and will be alive. We have histories that go back to the beginning of time, and dreams that extend to the end of time. Part of me will always be here with you, and part of you will be here with me, no matter where I go.
I'm not sure what the "I" is of me. That is going to be my search. What will it look like as I paint this picture of "I" with words, with actions, and pictures? Who is Eliza?
In my search for her, you certainly will be part of my heart and soul. And I thank you for that.
Peace be with you, Alfred.
Your loving partner,
Eliza went to the bathroom and tied a string to the shower head. At the other end of the string she put the letter, rolled up tightly.