July 14th, 1983
Hello my love, how have you been? I’ve been doing better. It’s still raining here. Nothing new. I have a new job now, my book has finally gotten published. I think you would’ve been proud of me. The day’s grow darker as the anniversary approaches. There’s not much else that’s been going on. I’ve thought about packing up and leaving for awhile, but your dog just doesn’t seem to want to leave.
July 20th, 1983
Hello my love, it’s been a few days. The doctor keeps telling me I should keep writing to you. Even if, you know you’re dead. I don’t see the reasoning behind it. Considering you’re never going to read these letters. But, I’m slowly getting into the habit of doing it. Writing to you, makes the pain a lot easier to bare. You’re dog keeps looking in the corner of the house where you used to sit. I wonder why. He whimpers at night on your side of the bed…I guess I still miss you. But I guess I still don’t.
July 25th, 1983
Hello my love, it’s me again. I was wondering if you managed to either go to heaven or hell. If your in heaven say hi to Monica for me, and if you’re in hell give my dad a big ol’ squeeze. After all, he’s just like you. A old drunk. I don’t forgive him, or you for everything that you’ve done. I figured after that one car accident you would’ve been done. I was wrong. Like always.
There are times where I do miss you, and then there are times where I’m glad you’re in the ground. Decomposing, full of maggots…I just there are thing’s where I just can’t forgive you for. Threatening me is one of them, so was laying a hand on me.
That was your biggest mistake.
August 4th, 1983
Hi my love, this is starting to become a real bad habit. Writing to you when I feel the lowest. I’ve been writing these letters and giving them to my doctor as advised. I don’t understand why he would want them anyway. They’re nothing but rambling words from a widow to her dead husband. It all sounds kind of crazy don’t you think?
I had to put your dog outside last night, his whimpering was driving me crazy. Making it hard for me to sleep at night. What’s wrong with him? God, it’s like you’re still here or something.
No, that’s another crazy thought. Besides, these letters aren’t supposed to make sense. They’re supposed to help with the ’emotional healing’. How stupid is that? This doctor thinks he knows everything, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t know the nights I stayed up, waiting for you to come through that door stumbling over your own feet, vomiting all over my carpeted floor.
I’m glad you’re gone. I’m happy you’re dead.
August 5th, 1983
Hi Stan, I feel bad the way I ended my last letter. I did cry when I found out the news, I did. Really I did. I just saw it coming. I knew it was going to happen one night or another. And I don’t feel bad. I guess secretly I had hoped and prayed that one night, something like that would’ve happened.
But, I’m not sorry for tampering with the breaks. I warned you. Didn’t I? I warned you not to lay a hand on me or your dog again. You didn’t listen.
But how was I supposed to know you were going out drinking with the guys? How was I supposed to know that you were going to drink more then before? I wish I would’ve just laid down the divorce papers. Things would’ve just ended right here.
I fell out of love with you, when you slapped me across the face, calling me a dirty w***e. I fell out of love with you, the day you came home reeking of s*x and booze.
I fell out of love with you, when I found out about her.
August 6th, 1983
This has become a really bad habit. Now I’ve written to you, three days in a row. Making it ten times harder to get over you. Why did the doctor say I should do this again? Other then emotional healing? There are times where I would write to you and forget I did.
I started sleeping on your side of the bed. The pillow still smells like your aftershave.
I cried for the first time last night, holding your pillow.
I actually missed you. I missed the good times, before the miscarriage. Before our marriage went down hill. I missed…the way things had used to be.
The damn dog keeps barking.
August 7th, 1983
My love, are you home? I swear I keep hearing your voice at night. I keep feeling your hands touching me. I don’t understand any of this. The god blessed dog keeps trying to scratch at your bedside. And I don’t understand why or how…
Have you come home to me once again? One more time? How many times have you come home, and I haven’t seen you? Heard you? But the dog has? Has Chance been seeing you since the accident?
What’s going on with me my love? I don’t understand anything. The room keeps getting darker with each and every day. It’s growing hard to breathe. What is this, I’m feeling?
August 8th, 1983
I went to the doctor today, he said nothing was wrong with me. I was just finally realizing everything that had happened and it was coming down on me. A ‘mental breakdown’ he said. I laughed in his face.
He hasn’t seen Chance. He hasn’t heard you. But I have. There are night’s where I swear to whoever is above, that you are leaning down over me. Watching me. Waiting for something to happen.
What are you waiting for? Tell me…please, I want to hear your voice again. The silence in our old home is trickling my sanity away.
Stan, I miss you…but god you drive me insane.
August 10th, 1983
I’m sick and tired of writing you letters, and you never respond. I’m sick of your s**t. Are you seeing that w***e again? Huh? Are you?
What…what am I writing? You’re dead. Why am I feeling this way…? I don’t get it…
August ?, 1983
Hello my love…I’ve realized I’ve lost all sense of time. I haven’t gone to my doctor in a long time. I saw you the other night, walking down the hall to our bedroom. I’ve decided to follow you. After all, it was my fault that you’ve died.
After walking in on you and the w***e, I know I did something bad. I did something really, really bad. I think…I think I understand why the doctor wanted me to start writing these letters to you. So I can start to remember what happened.
The reason why, I haven’t changed the bed sheets, or the reason you stopped showing up to work…the dog digging at the carpeted floor.
We never had carpet. Always hard wood. Easy to clean.
You were nailing her, right there in our bed. I couldn’t take it anymore. Could I? You refused me the divorce, you refused to allow me to leave the home. So…I did the only thing I could think of.
I killed you, I murdered you and the w***e. I listened to the both of you screaming, and I loved it. I loved every bit of it. I had finally felt free from your grasp.
But now, now you’re coming back aren’t you? You’re coming back to finish what you started. You won’t ever allow me to leave this house…ever again will you? Will you Stan? I can’t even leave the bedroom anymore. The door’s locked…why? Why are you doing this to me? Because I wanted freedom? And you wouldn’t let me have it?
Now you’re here.
Now tonight, you’re going to wrap your fat hands around my throat, and choke me to death, aren’t you my love?
That way I can join you, and the w***e in hell.
I’ll kill you again. Twice over.