INDAY

July 5, 2025,

Dear Diary,

Yesterday was the first day of my first ‘official’ writing. A letter to the sister-that-never-was, Inday. It’s gonna be-or MAYBE ‘was’-a little disorganized, but here goes.

Dear Inday,

Hello, my little Angel. Or rather, little-sister-that-I-can-never-have.

My name is Christopher, your brother. We have never met, and probably never will. Well, not unless I obey the scriptures, be born from above, and endure in holiness and obedience by following the narrow path….

Only then can I ever hope to obtain eternal life with you and your king, who rules us all.

Now, this may be a bit disorganized, because I’ve never written a letter of this magnitude before. As a matter of fact, it’s the first time in my life that I’ve been writing anything before officially, other than wrestling stories. Now, please don’t judge me. Our mom has only recently told me about you, and it’s just that by writing to you…. Well, I hope to get something off my chest, express myself, you know. Our mother sometimes complains that my writing is a little immature and even crazy and my dad says that it’s repetitious. But I don’t care. It’s to you that I am writing, and you won’t judge me. I know most people won’t. After all, it’s MY letter.

Now, a bit about me. Like I said, please don’t judge me. It’s the first time I wrote a letter of this magnitude. Like I told you before, my name is Christopher and I live with my dad, an elderly man from Lebanon, in a small apartment in Toronto, Ontario, Canada. I am 44 years old and I work three jobs. Yes, that’s right, three!

Now, what are my jobs? Well, for one, I work at a ‘restaurant’ called Tim Hortons, a coffee shop that EVERYBODY loves. I stand for six to eight hours a day serving coffee and donuts to people that want those things in exchange for money. Oh, and get this, it’s at Toronto General Hospital, where I serve mostly nurses, doctors, their patients, and other hospital staff, and a lot of them love me.

Speaking of which, I do unpaid work at that same hospital-it’s called volunteering-where I take people to their appointments and doctors. They come to the desk, ask where a certain clinic is, and I offer to take them there, in that same hospital… I literally walk them to their appointment whereas most people would just sit and say, ‘go left. Go right. Take the elevator to the fifth floor.’

You see, the people at Toronto General Hospital love me so much that they have inspired me to do more for them than just Tim Hortons. They’ve called me by my name, bought me food on occasion, hugged me sometimes, and they even asked me bring food to the big people that run the hospital! Because of all that, they’ve inspired me to volunteer. Sometimes, people have appointments outside the hospital, and I take them away from the hospital to another hospital where they have their appointment. Yes, outside the hospital! How about that!?

One time, I did such a good job with a patient and her daddy that she nominated me for a citation called, ‘Honour your hero’! For being so helpful and considerate and compassionate. Imagine that! Me, a hero!

My third job I work at the hospital-another hospital, but part of the same family of hospitals known as ‘The University Health Network’! The hospital I work at is called Toronto Rehabilitation Institute and it’s part of the University Health Network. What do I do there? Well, in a word, dishwasher. It’s a little low, my mom says, but it’s a start, and I’m determined to do the best possible job for the very same group of people that have taken the time to know me and give me a chance! Anything’s possible with faith and the will of your king.

More about me: I like computer games, going for walks, candies, cokes, cakes, donuts, French fries, watching music videos on youtube, the University Health Network, and writing wrestling stories.

Even more: I told you that I live with my dad in a small apartment. You see, Inday, my dad and OUR mom, an ‘elderly’ woman from the Philippines, are not living together and yet they live close by. On occasion, our mom would by to help us clean, go over some documents, drop off some yummy food. Sometimes, however, she’d get frustrated with me and turn ‘mean’ because of my autism. And that’d make me mad at times. Even now, I go over it in my mind and re-enact interactions with her, causing me to bite my lip and my body to shake.

But despite this, I love my dad and our mom and they do me! After all, it’s the law where you live to honour them. I’ll tell more about our mom later in this letter, but right now…

I just wanted to say that I’m disappointed that I never got to know you, much less meet you. You never got a chance to know this wonderful planet your king has made, because you left this world before you were even a nanosecond old. And even if you had been born, what kind of brother would I have been? Would I have deserved you?

I’m thinking, ‘No. I would NEVER have deserved you’. Know why? Because, since I am autistic, I would’ve been selfish, too caught up in my own inner world. And no, not all autistics are like me.

You see, I would’ve been too caught up in my laptop, listening to music on youtube, playing my computer games, and writing my wrestling stories. You see, I’m so caught up in it that I:

Daydream about women in leotards being thrashed, have their bodies twisted in unnatural ways, cuffed to fixtures, and zapped with cattle prods.

Daydream about young men in tight pants and speedos having the same thing done to them. Sometimes, I get ‘wet’ thinking about it.

I daydream about a certain television show for children that used to air a decade before you would’ve been born (On a side note, I would’ve been thirteen years older than you). It’s a show where kids act alongside and fight adults. I daydream that I’m part of the show and I try to take it over with the help of a group of evil kids and even evil spirits, the type that your king always protects his people from, both on Earth and up there.

That is my inner world, sometimes to the accompaniment of music. It bothers me to have these fantasies sometimes, but at least I neither act on ‘em nor tell anyone else about them.

Also, I would’ve been so engrossed in my laptop that either you, my dad, or our mom tried to call me or talk to me, I would’ve been VERY annoyed. I know, I feel that way when my dad calls for me in the living room and our mom calls me on the phone.

You probably would’ve caught me in my fantasy moment and would’ve been very embarrassed for me, at the very least. Oh, my stupid inner world. I gotta take control of it, not the other way around.

Strange as this may seem to say… (See? I told you this’ll be disorganized) but I wish you were born, not merely as my sister, but as my mirror. In other words, my twin.

I’d be the impulsive man of afterthought, and you’d be my mirror, my anchor, and my foil; maybe even the best of friends. We’d go to the same schools, apply for the same jobs, go to the same T.A.S.K., go to the same Geneva Centre, the same summer camps, and even go on the same ‘adventures’.

What are T.A.S.K. and the Geneva Centre, you ask? What ‘adventures’ am I referring to? Well, I go on about these later on in the letter.

I have some pictures that remind me of you. How? I don’t know, but…. Here goes.

I have a picture of a woman with light skin, dark wavy hair, in bare feet and wearing black pants. She wears a dark vest over a green long-sleeved sweater and has one hand on her hip, her face in neutral. I imagined that was what you looked like, for some reason. You never came to me in person, although I know you’ve been watching me and hoping that I would stop these fantasies of mine and act more…. Scriptural. On a side note, too bad I can’t pray to you, your king doesn’t allow it, but I can feel happy for you and long to meet you up there.

Another picture is of ‘you’ and me kneeling across from each other, holding hands, with our heads bowed and eyes closed. In that picture, you’re dressed the same as in the last picture, but only you have someone with you in the picture: ME! In that picture, I’m barefoot like you, but I’m wearing a white t-shirt and dark shorts, my favourite outfit. White t-shirts, black pants, black shorts, black skirts. Ooooh….

A third picture is of me wearing that same outfit, but this time, I’m holding a cellphone. Oh, and I’m kneeling, too. In this picture, you’re wearing a different outfit-a flowery swimsuit. Oh, how I love those. We are in a swimming with two palm trees looming behind us. You’re wearing sunglasses and sitting in a lawn chair, sipping coke. I’m smiling, narrowing my eyes as I show something on my phone, but you’re sitting back, enjoying your pop.

Another picture involves you, but a little…. Different. You’re dressed in a different outfit-a dress of some kind-but you look a little different, at least in terms of your expression. And your body as well. Now, what do I mean? Well, in this fourth photo, your body is whitish and seems to blend into the background. As for your face, there is no smile. You look like you’ve seen something bad and you want to say something, but you can’t. You have your hands on the shoulders of some man, but who is it? Me, or someone else? I don’t know. This man, his face hidden by mask with filters instead of a nose or mouth and his eyes are two big, glassy holes. On his helmet he wears a curved ‘S’ . He wears a uniform of some nature and he carries a big rifle, looking for a fight.

These pictures of you are what I think you’d look like. Or rather, what I’d like to look like. Who knows what you would’ve look like had you been given a chance in this world. Who knows how you and I would’ve been like had you been alive? I’d much like us to be twins, as stated before, but we cannot. I would’ve been thirteen years older than you. You would’ve been a better daughter to our mother than me, being the selfish, autistic, dreamer son that I am.

Oh, how one can only wish, hope, dream, regret, etc….

This is just the introductory chapter of this letter. Next two chapters are gonna be about our beloved mother and my much-loved dad.

July 6, 2025

Dear Diary,

What a day I had yesterday. There I was, sitting in this driveway, a building in front of me, a building behind me, a parking lot to my right, and the street to my left, where the I hear the constant humming of cars and the on-going chatter of civilians, with the occasional interruption of streetcars chiming.

Above, the sun was beating down on me and there was little shade, thanks to the awning above me which barely reached over its edge. Below, the pavement was heating my ankles. Hot that day, but I did it for HER. All while wearing my favourite outfit-a white t-shirt and black shorts.

I read my letter, the introductory part, out loud. Just me. By the time I finished the first part, my eyes felt heavy and my head started swaying and swimming. DO you know how long it took me to draft this letter and draw those pictures? Hours upon hours. Yesterday I only had two hours sleep. Wait…. Maybe it was less. I don’t remember. All I know is that it was less.

Just before I nodded off, I felt something strange. A cool breeze, chilly yet comforting, like it was patting me or something. I reached into my pocket, fishing out my cellphone, and the time? 10:30 AM.

“Wake up,” barks a gruff male voice.

My heart races as I find myself in that same driveway. “Get up,” yells that voice again.

I fish around for my cellphone and I read the time. 2:30 PM. 2:30 PM? I’ve been asleep for that long!? The phone beeps. 4 new messages from… Dad. Oh, man, I think, Dad’s gonna kill me.

I look up to see the security guard looking down at me: big, burly, and scowling. “You can’t sleep here,” he cries. “Take your stuff and get out of here!”

I jump to my feet, grab my backpack, and frantically fish around for my papers. As I did so, I looked up-perhaps by impulse, I don’t know-at the security guard, who continued to look down at me as if I was a lower form of life. “What are you looking at?” he yelled. “Get your shit and get out!”

Hurriedly, I gathered whatever papers I could and hightailed it out of there, not even registering that the pavement was now-or rather, then-heating the soles of my feet. I walked out into the indifferent Toronto streets, with passersby not even glancing at me.

I turn to my left and pace a bit, glancing at the building behind me. “Inday,” I whisper. “My-sister-that-never-was.” Just then, I caught the sign, it letters looming. ‘Cabbagetown Women’s Clinic.’

I look at my phone, go to the contacts section and my finger hovers over, ‘Dad’. I shake and my pulse quickens. “Excuse me,” goes a gruff male voice. “Move!”

I move out of the way and watch as a scruffy-looking fellow moves past me. Suddenly, my phone begind to play some music. I look at the screen. Unknown number.

I swipe right and say, “Hello?”

“Christopher?” goes a soft female voice at the other end.

“Hello?” I go again.

“Christopher…” she replies.

“Who is this?” I ask. Click.

No answer. My phone pings. A text. Christopher, my brother.

Who was that? Unknown number.

Just after I got thrown out of the driveway. Again, my phone pings. Again a text: Hello, Christopher, my brother? Hello?

My heart skips. Who was that? Then, I get a picture sent to me via text: a black-and-white drawing, just like most of my pictures that day, of a man, barefoot and wearing a white t-shirt plus black shorts, next to a wall, head on a backpack, sound asleep while that same woman, the same in my other pictures, barely visible, kneeling next to him, her hands on his shoulders, smiling warmly.

What, I wonder. I never made that picture. That picture looks like the man and woman in my other pictures. That man is me. Drawn exactly in my same style. How….

My phone plays music again. I answer, “Hello?”

“Christopher, my brother.” Goes that same female voice again.

My skin prickles and my jae drops. “I-Inday?” I go, not realizing how loud I sounded.

“Christopher?” she responded.

I have to go now. Gotta get ready to work at Toronto Rehabilitation Institute. Will tell more later on. Bye for now.