Messaging Death: A Letter to my Killer

Being somewhere, anywhere alive was fine, but I didn’t feel fine. I had only met one man I would ever truly consider evil, and that person was you. According to the local paper, across town only fifteen people had died today, same as every other day. That year alone, over a thousand and unfortunately for me, not one of them was you. Then again, not one of them were me, either. I pondered the way that would feel, or what would happen the day time ultimately stopped for me. Who would know, who would care? These are perfectly acceptable thoughts when your life is being held but I guess I won’t have to worry about those answers just yet.

Eventually more time passed and I begin to question when would it be my turn? The dark image wasn’t lost on me, landing heavy on my heart as it filtered to the back of my mind like the rest of my morbid thoughts. Thoughts of people never knowing my fate, never finding me. You dying with my secrets, with the secrets of all the others killed, all the secrets I knew and had gathered over time. Knowing the papers would cycle door-to-door without ever landing at my feet again. No one ever being the wiser.

Don’t get me wrong, it isn’t like I was free to open the front door, no.

Life in the basement at Twenty-Three-Twenty-One Hollowsell Lane was quite tepid. I wish I could tell you that you are going to like this letter, but you probably won’t. In the same regard, I won’t hope that you find it well, or that it finds you well. Some people have many things they say in order to pass time, or make nice of a situation—but this is not that time. Surviving a killers game is not for the faint of heart. One wrong move and life is over, just like flicking a light-switch. It was something you told me often, standing over me smiling that ugly, soulless smile—it wasn’t beyond my understanding. I was just as motivated as you were, if not more. You see, I had a game of my own, and as of today, it is pretty clear who won.

Naturally, I thought about where I would be if I was out in the world with the rest of the ordinary, normal people. I wondered who would be in my place if I hadn’t decided to get into your car, and maybe it was always meant to be this way. The thought both sickened me and gave me strength. After all, I had lasted the longest, so I must’ve been doing something right—but, as with everything, I supposed you want to ask me why I killed you? The answer isn’t going to be what you expect. It was never about you.

You see, one year turned into another, and then another and I would dream the same thing over and over and over again—about waking up in a hospital, all alone but nothing ever happened. It began to drive me crazy.

Then there were all the thoughts of you. I remember it like it was yesterday. If I had just walked a little bit slower, or missed the first train, maybe things would have turned out differently for a lot of people, myself included. I’m not sure what first tipped me off, what first caught me off guard about you. But it was just enough to send me over the edge. There was something in the way you smiled that made that unsettling feeling wash over my skin, settling into my bones, turning my stomach. I still got into your car, shaking off that feeling. Knowing I was the greater of two evils.

I had two things on my mind, running and getting to work. I was late, the third day in a row and couldn’t afford the write-up. Guess now, in hindsight, the alternative was a far better option, but it wouldn’t have led me to you. You would still be out there wreaking havoc on god-knows-who else, but that is what happens when a killer meets another killer and I would like to think he sent me to find you, to hunt you, to lure you into a web of my own so you couldn’t hurt anyone else. It felt empowering as I waited, watched, pining for the perfect moment.

It made me wonder how many of those other thousands of peoples whose names and faces make it into an obituary were just as evil as you, hiding secrets like you. I write this letter for the countless others who never make it into an online archive because they fall off the face of the earth under the dark blanket of man-kinds worst, to vanish forever. But alas, this will be nevermore, at least for you. Your story ended, your face never made it to the paper but your name made headlines, as it should. Revealing the cold, calculated and callous man that hid behind the paupers glove. Unearthing only half of the claimed forty women you told me about.

Until next time, hope we never meet again but kindly send my regards to the others, for they are next.

Yours Truly,

Fate