Anonymous Letter

this is a fictional piece i wrote in anger. Mat said i should type it up, so here I am. enjoy.




I've lit incense to cover the smell of blood. I can't think straight with it stalking my senses, and I want to tell the story from my eyes.

I don't know how much time I have. Perhaps the neighbors have already called the police; maybe they heard something. I tried to be as quiet as possible, but thinking straight has never really been my forte' to begin with.

You'll probably want to call it a crime of passion, I've certainly set it up to look that way, but if you look closer, you'll only find blind rage. I was meticulous ( I always am); I was ready to right the wrongs. I had not overlooked a single detail. This was my latest raison d'etre' of my rotten brain. I've spent a life time swooning over fools like him, searching for eyes that register on the same level as mine. But not only did I find his did not, I found insincere confessions of love and a broken heart. He spat in my face, laughed, and turned away.

I feel I've repaid the favor.

Now, I came here not fully intending to carry out my happy plan; it was safe in the darkest reaches of the back of my mind, kept at bay by hope, but completely available to any sudden anger and instability. I came instead to try to make a truce in order for both of us to function in overlapping worlds. He was always in my dreams: beating me, raping me, bidding my Fido into traffic. I lost my soul to him and since then have lost my wits. But I still hoped he would comply, that we may brainstorm harmony at an all hours cafe. Maybe he could move away? Or keep away?

I hoped all the way to his door, humming the tune to Crocodile Rock and fiddling with the change in my pocket. My hands were sweating. It wasn't that he was mean, he was just thoughtless, though I'm not here to make excuses for him.

And who was I to think he'd refuse to compromise?

This, I admit, made me angry. He was working hard in the community where as I couldn't participate since our estrangement. The resulting dismissal from my responsibilities was only beginning to sour in my stomach and show on my breath. With each moment I was seething, bitter at his disrespect and my lack of coping mechanism or confidence. As red dye saturated my sockets I searched my brain for a better solution, but looking at him only made my stomach turn. I was assaulted by flashbacks to our mutual sexual encounters that made me cringe. I held my breath and stumbled backwards, still hoping...

Through my mental chaos I felt my hand grip a pillow I had tripped over. My mind raced , half screaming for me to put the pillow back down and half cackling with joy and madness as his meaningless words echoed subtly in the background. Soon I was on top of him with the pillow over his face, biting my tongue in ecstasy as his body jerked in vain to save itself where his master had failed- and oh, had he failed. I shuddered as his nose caved in under my weight and i heard the squeal of a pig. then, as suddenly as he had always appeared, he had vanished and the dead weight below me was still.

As was I, still pressing the pillow with all of my weight. My eyes glazed over as I thought.

There was only one thing to do; it was time to make my statement. I sat back on the dead weight's stomach and lifted the pillow from its face. It's bright green eyes now looked slightly purple to my vision, they were protruding, those eyes I had searched so thoroughly and even in death were averted from me. The lips made a perfect O, it was as comical as it was graceless as it was morbid. I relished the sight.
Minutes later I had dragged the body into the kitchen and was setting myself to the task of preparation. The knife slid easily through the flesh in my business-like state. I left enough meat on the bones to rot in the case of late discovery, which at this point, I'm putting all my money on. My time is limited.

I only began to make suspicious noises- my animalistic grunts were almost mute in caution and control- when I had to hack the majority into smaller pieces, which for someone of my small size is seldom easy work. The act is what the act is, I shall not try to make poetry out of it with details of the surrounding blood, or saws getting caught in the floor, or worse: how I nicked my finger.

My statement was this: be careful of your influence. I left meat hanging in the closet, purified in food containers in the refrigerator, in the cat food bowl set out for strays. I nailed meat on the walls, left chunky bones as doorstops, ashtrays (ashes but no butts.), and in shoes. The list goes on and on, and I suppose you will be lucky enough to see my art for yourself. I kept a few pieces for myself to leave in certain places.
I painted in blood on the floor: at first you were everywhere with purpose.

They will know who it was, and I am tired. I must do what I have to-

end this letter.

Signed,
Anonymous