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Thursday, 10 October 2013

Is This a Break Up Letter or Something Much More Sinister?

Today, I'm publishing an undated letter along with a photograph that was mysteriously forwarded to me this week. I'm wondering what's happened to the person that wrote the letter and the addressee. 

Is this a letter about a relationship break up, a work of fiction, or something much more sinister? I found it really sad, but it also sent a chill right through me.  I sense there is more to come. Readers, your thoughts would be valuable...
N P Postlethwaite

                                  


Dear Mia  
 
I don’t think I’ve ever written a letter, but it feels like the most natural thing to do now and easier than saying these things to you in person. The truth is, I felt us breaking away for some time, but I couldn’t gather up the pieces fast enough to put us back together again – they seemed to run, rather than fall, from my hands. All the while, you pretended everything was normal.

I’ve had a terrible pain in my chest since yesterday and I’ve taken a few of your strong painkillers, but it hasn’t gone. I think it’s heartache. You can’t take pills for that, can you? I don’t know the point where your love became resentment, Mia, but I felt the resentment behind your mask of love, and I know you blame me for cutting short your future. 

You used to greet me with such raw passion, but then I felt flames of hate burning me instead. Yet still, I can’t believe we’ve disintegrated to this wretched state. I keep thinking I can’t cry over you anymore, but I do and I’m surprised by the intensity of my tears and how they leave me feeling completely  crippled. 

I see things from a different perspective now. I see right over our relationship, what we once were, and how pathetic we’ve became. I know I can’t climb back down to where we were, especially now we’ve reached this point; too much has happened and I’m tired of all the secrets.  

I tired Mia, so tired, but I can’t sleep. I don’t know how you can lie there so peacefully, when I am utterly haunted by how you reacted to our news. I know you didn’t intend for me to know how devastated you were, Mia, but nothing you feel escapes me. How you actually felt was the final knife wound to my soul. 

Your bitterness resonates right through me, my love. Sleep escapes me, but I must try. I just want the pain to end. We’ve had our chances. We fucked them all. I’ll finish writing to you soon, but now I’m tired.

Dominic 


N P Postlethwaite's novel, The First Sense is available at http://goo.gl/m1hycJ

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