Being Human Wiki

Shortly before his death George wrote a heartbreaking letter to Eve:

Dear Eve,

I hope that this is a waste of time. That I am simply paranoid and that I will write this and then live a long and happy life. Better yet, I hope that I am reading this with you. That you've found it in some old shoe box and asked me, you're grey haired silly old father, what it is. That would be wonderful. Then we could just dismiss this as some pointless thing I wrote when I was younger. When I feared for our lives. It would be lovely if we could laugh about this together.

But there is a good chance you're reading this alone.

It breaks my heart to think that might be the case. That I will never see you grow. Never hear you laugh. Good God, that I will never even hear you speak.

And worse than that, that you could grow up without us. Never knowing your parents, beyond photographs, beyond stories. It's a massive void to fill that this letter can never hope to fill. But there are some things I need to tell you.

I had a friend, a good friend, called Mitchell. He was a Vampire, but ignored the traditional rivalry between our groups and opted instead for the crazy idea of just seeing me as a man called George. We had each others backs. And for a while we were happy.

Good friends can be as strong as family. And they can be as bad as family. They can mess you up and let you down and drive you insane. But you have to keep trying, you have to keep trusting, because if you allow the let-downs and the betrayals wear you down and close off your heart, then the darkness has won.

The darkness won with Mitchell. Ultimately what he was won over who he was. A “good” Vampire is a lovely idea, but they are fighting what they are, their basic drive, on an daily basis. And sooner or later they always fall. Mitchell fell and he took a lot of people with him.

All the same, I hope you find a friend as good as Mitchell. I just hope it isn't a Vampire.

Despite my experience with him I implore you, stay away from them. He was the exception, not the rule. They killed your mother and probably killed me, which should be reason enough.

I suppose we had a good run, our messed up little family. Me your mother, Mitchell and Annie.

Annie she was the heart of our little group. The warmest, kindest, obsessive maker of tea I've ever known. She lived more life after she died than most people do before. Is she still around as you grow? Is it selfish of me to hope she is? I suppose she has to pass over one day. Part of me wonders whether she's stayed around as long as she has because she knows on some level that we need her.

I want to write more. I want to keep going until I run out of paper and ink and daylight, but I realise that this letter can never be long enough. It wants to take years to write and years to read and then I realise *that it* (crossed out) what I really want is not to write you a letter but to raise you. See you grow. Tell you everything I know in person, at the point when you need it most. And if this letter means anything to you now, then that hasn't happened. But I must talk about your mother before I go. Brave little dynamo, my Nina. Fearless. Hard like a diamond. A smile like the sun. Who always cut through the lies we tell ourselves in every situation. Who would do the right thing even when it hurt. A tiny marvel who had only one moment of insanity on the day she picked me.

I wonder, will you grow up to look like her? That would make me so proud and break my heart at the same time, I hope at least, that you get her ears nor mine.

Making a joke on this page is a strange thing. I write it now and smile, setting it down and then years later it unfolds in your mind and perhaps you smile, perhaps laugh. Perhaps cry.

Death is different for us. For those of us who know, beyond any doubt, that there is something beyond the physical. That something lives on. And you would think, given all I have seen, all that I know, that your mothers death would not have quite the same sting. But it does. It does.

I hope she still lives on somewhere else, that she waits for me. Maybe as you read this, we wait for you, watching over you from the other side. It's not too much to hope for, is it?

There is so much more I want to tell you but these words seem hollow on the page. They're not big enough for my feelings, for what I want to say, but I will say them anyway:

Wherever you are, whoever you have become we are proud of you.

Your father,


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