Regards, RIP

Dearest Graham,

By the time you read this, it will already be too late. For you.

I have been wanting to write to you for a long time now. But so often, when I try to write what I wanted to say, I stumble over my words and then scrap the draft completely. You see, you were my everything for so long. I mean that very literally, as you damn well know. I had been isolated slowly and gradually from all of the people who loved and cared for me. That was your sly and calculated plan all along, wasn’t it?

Initially, I saw it as flattering — bowled over by this man, a man whom I admired and adored, who wanted me all to himself. I felt a rush of giddy anticipation knowing that I was the sole focus of your attentions. Well, that’s how I imagined it, though we both know I was not very high on your list. Not very high on your list is the understatement of the millennium. I hope you laughed at that; I know I did.

But then, I deserved it, didn’t I? That’s what you always said. How stupid, worthless, draining I was. How I should be lucky to have a man like you, willing to do the hard work emotionally and physically (we know which you preferred, though, don’t we, Martin — or should I say Graham?). Tanya and the kids are amazing. I don’t know how you managed to bag them when you had such a liability of me under your heavy wings.

If the isolation wasn’t bad enough, then there were the bluest of blue, purple, and red bruises you gifted me with regularly. I originally saw them as nothing more than explosions of passion. Then came the various cuts, burns, ligature marks, and random bites. I always appreciated, though, that these often happened when I was high as a kite on the various compounds you tried out on me over the years.

Must have felt so powerful — having me under your spell.

Then there was the infertility. The rape. The neglect.

Your favourite cocktail.

Siphoning my money off into various unaccounted-for accounts was another blessing. Truly, I am thankful for being unburdened, even when my mother died of a long and bitter battle with dementia and had a sizeable inheritance to pass on to her only daughter. I wouldn’t have known what to do with it, anyway.

So thank you.

I bet you’re wondering if there is a catch to all this. You were always a very paranoid person, for all your macho hubris.

Well. Far be it for me to be the one to disappoint you as much as you disappointed me. I can see the cogs turning and overheating at all that brainpower being put to use for anything other than depravity against “your special flower.” The special flower you wilted and burned.

Anyway.

I am dead. At least temporarily. A ghost floating around my own soon‑to‑be‑deceased body. It actually makes me sick to think I fought so hard to make us work.

Still, here I am in a slightly faded form. Ironically, I feel more alive and freer than I ever did with you.

Why did I ever let you touch me?

Anyway, to the point of this letter. You see, I met a man. A real man. Or at least a real, honest man. Who heard my tales of woe and suffering, of abuse and torture at your hands, after I finally got free. He was very sympathetic. But also very cunning himself. Fortunately, his evil plans were not focused on me. They were focused on you. You always loved being the centre of attention.

You should know that, by the time you receive and open this letter, there's nothing you can do.

The letter has been laced with several toxins that will send you into a peaceful sleep for a few hours, while the rest of our plan takes effect.

Don’t worry, darling — it will all be okay soon.

The police have been contacted. Your fingerprints are all over my bloody corpse and the weapon you used to bludgeon me to death with.

My new favourite psychopath has taken care of everything and will be seeing you soon.

Hopefully, he will remember to clean his axe. And, by the way, he was bigger and better in every way. In his bed, I was a woman again. He was kind and passionate, and despite his unsavoury profession as a killer, he made me feel more like the sexual beast I wanted to be with you — the one you turned into a crash‑test dummy for your savage brutality.

Once he has taken care of business and ensured justice is done, this letter will be no more — a fart in the wind, a vision in the back of your mind, an apparition in your mirror.

Please send him my kind regards, and I will see him when I awaken from my not‑so‑permanent grave in a couple of days’ time, when all the pieces of the plan have been set in motion and you are on your way to a life behind bars.

Don’t worry. If you even remember this letter — which you won’t — I’ll have changed identities. The only Darlene Jenkins you were supposed to love and cherish will be dead at your hands.

It’s funny. There was a time when I was truly worried about dying at your hands.

I realise now you were never man enough to finish the job.

My new man did what needed to be done. You will never do this to anyone else again.

Kindest of Regards,

RIP

Darlene

You’ll never stop seeing me. In the waking nightmare that awaits you.

I am already watching.

*

Thanks for reading!

Now there is an audio recording of me reading the story!

Author's Notes: This was originally going to be another entry into Rick's Haunted Letters Challenge. But it was too long and I didn't want to cut it down. So, here we go.

The paintings do not directly inspire it, but do highlight some of the themes in the letter.

Here are some other things: