The Letter

The Letter

It was a cold morning for autumn. Bright chilly sunshine poured through my kitchen window highlighting dust motes that hung motionless over the letter pinned to my back door with a large knife. Linda had used my old typewriter to write—'Please read this tomorrow.'—on the front of it.

        Every tomorrow has its own tomorrow, and I was never one to follow instructions too well. The door was brand new. I'd thrown her husband through the old one for what he’d done to her.

        I grabbed the knife and yanked it from the door. Her subtle perfume lingered in the cold morning air as the letter dropped to the floor, revealing a simple but beautiful love-heart on the back. I picked it up and held it to my face inhaling her fragrance for a long moment. Then I used the knife to open it. The shiny blade made short work of slicing the envelope open.



Dear Tom,

You opened it right away, didn't you?

I know you're going to hate reading this and call me a coward for not doing this in person. It's usually done over a cup of coffee at some obscure café, so please make yourself a cup of that horrid black coffee you love so much and read this at your leisure.

We are over, Tom.

There.

I wrote it.

So I made coffee but it tasted bitter. I poured it down the drain and read on.

By the time you read this, I'll be back with my violent husband and his two kids that hate my guts. I do want to thank you for our great time together and also the trying times we had. I particularly want to express my gratitude for your loving care, nursing me back to health.

The night you found me beside that lonely road, beat up and almost dead and bleeding, was the luckiest night of my life. Not just because you saved my life, but because it allowed us to meet. The quick trip to hospital was one thing, but for you to take me in when I had nowhere else to go really showed your selflessness and compassion.

I know you so well that I can tell what you're thinking right now. If I was sitting with you right now, you’d say, "Anyone else would have done the same thing. Pfftt, it was nothing."

That's why I love you so much.

I do want to make one thing very clear. I didn't leave because of your writing all the time. I actually got used to playing second fiddle to that damned book of yours. Your weird habits will remain a secret between the two of us. The way you lied about taking a break from it, only to sneak off with your laptop in the middle of the night was quite funny, now that I think about it.

I know you will always love writing much more than you could ever love me; the left over love you had for me was more than enough.




        I put the knife and the letter on the counter and took-off my glasses to wipe my eyes. I could see the grape vines outside losing their golden-brown leaves. A cold, bleak winter was on its way. I'd always loved and looked forward to wintertime. Now, the thought of it made me shiver, chilling my very soul.

        I picked up the fragrant paper again, wondering how long the scent would last. It was all that remained of her.



It's easy for me to see everything clearly, now that I stopped taking my medication. There is something I must do, and I must do it alone. The only person that can fix this is me, and I hope you won't think ill of me afterwards. I couldn't bear it if you hated me.

I did learn to stand alone and to stand tall. I learned that from you, my love. Nobody is going to hurt me anymore—ever.

I can't recall the name of that Chinese guy that you used to quote all the time. Hell, I can't even remember the quote. Something about keeping your enemies closer. That's why I left you to move back with him.

Nice and close.

I stole your Colt 1911 from the gun-safe...



        "Shit!" I said, dropping the letter and made my way to the bedroom with long strides. The door to the safe was open. Keys still in the lock. I felt helpless. I rushed back to the kitchen and grabbed my phone to call the police, but I had to know what else she wrote.



...I only took one bullet. I'll only need one for him.

Oh, and by the way, I suppose I should thank you for teaching me to shoot. Don't bother calling the police. I'm sure they will call you soon. As a matter of fact, it's probably a good time for an overseas holiday, and if I were you I'd pack my bag fast, if you know what I mean. After all, this is your typewriter, and it is your gun.

Love Linda.