If you are reading this, then it means that I failed. One way or another I’m dead. I’m so sorry I never took the time and the chance to tell you what I was truly thinking. Yeah, I know, the last thing you expected from me is a love letter. Get over it. You’re getting one. It’s the last thing I could give you.
You meant more to me than you can ever know. I remember the first time we met, sitting at that pretentious little café on the corner. You had that big swirling drink and you looked at me across the rim. I remember thinking that you had the bluest eyes I’d ever seen. Still do, in fact. They were glowing like a Fremen from Dune. (See? I can’t even write a love letter without being a nerd.)
You asked me for a light and we talked. Drank freely until it was time to leave. Neither of us could drive and we got in that stupid green taxi with the third-rate homemade reggae on the stereo. I wanted to smack that driver. I never told you, but I ran into him about three months ago, hawking his CDs on Flagler Avenue. He still sucked.
I have always wondered if you had really lost your house key or if you were just looking for an excuse to be with me a little longer. I was quite the host, right? “Welcome to my home. I have coffee if you want. Oh, and frozen fish sticks.” It’s a wonder I didn’t suicide on the spot from sheer embarrassment.
Anyway, every day since I’ve thought of you. When I needed a smile, a shot of courage, or a brief second of hope, it was your face I saw. I’ll be looking at your pic tonight before I go in.
So if you are looking at this letter, Greg is there with you. I asked him to deliver it. We’ve exchanged that duty over and over again through the past two years. One of us holds a final letter for the other. He’ll escort you to the house. Trust me, doll – if you have this letter, you’ll need the force. Under the bed there’s a weapons case. Help yourself. Take anything you want from the house. Burn the place to the ground when you leave.
I won’t go into the full explanation here, but Greg can bring you up to speed. Just know this much: Werewolves are real. Yep. Not the stupid shit from old movies, but giant monsters that tear people apart. Greg has seen them up close, just like I have.
I stumbled on a den yesterday. I’m going to wipe them out today. Well, I was going to. Obviously something went wrong. If there’s a story on the news about a massive explosion off Northeast Eighteenth (they’ll say it was a gas leak or possibly claim some terrorist bullshit) then at least I broke even, and the escort will just be a formality. If not, then this den is still viable and the pack will hunt.
I’ll sign off here, Rita. No matter what, know that I loved you.
elements: love letter, werewolves, taxi service, lost key, fish sticks