#157 The Note

by E. Amelia Pasch

You think of it as paranoia when I say I was top of his hit list. I suppose I have caused you to doubt my word, but the truth prays on my mind—especially since he murdered a mother and daughter instead of me. You may have read the report in the local paper. It confirms the truth of what I say. It also says that Broadmoor is releasing him into the community. Will he return to finish the job?

You, my talented father, have always said that I could have been a contender for your crown, that I neglected my talent. Drugs have encouraged me to neglect more than that. I live in a pigsty, me who was always so conservative in my dress, so well turned out at family celebrations. Look at me now. I could be a homeless one. However unlikely, I would hate my sons to see me like this. Never have I told their mother of my inglorious fall from grace.

It is as if I see the blade of his knife dripping with my blood. Such images explode in my brain. Will this magic white powder catapult me into soft blue tranquillity? I will swallow my last fatal dose, deny him his satisfaction. Besides, a needle track would be an indignity too far, wherever my posthumous destination, heaven, hell, or oblivion. This last goodbye is to tell you all that I hold no grudge about your abandonment of me. I deserve no weeping mourners.

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