Dearest helpless. Intent's not as bad as the action.

Deep in the woods, deep where the canopy of trees block all but the barest scrap of sunlight. A spot where the dirt seems freshly turned. The smell of earthworms still hanging, moist, in the air. Buried under the soil are scrawled words on a sheath of paper. Words, meaningless to anyone other than the writer, or intended recipient.

Meaningless still, even then.

"Mongrel,
           The chances of you actually reading this are slim. Mainly because I have no intention on tracking you down again. No. I think we both know how that turns out.

I'd like to say I hope this letter finds you well, but of all the things I am, a liar isn't one of em. I guess for as long as you exist happy, without me, I'm far too selfish to wish you well. Selfish enough to hope that pretty boy merc up and leaves you. Selfish enough to hope you spiral down into a self destructive pattern. Selfish enough to hope that someone follows you while you head to your empty house. And beats you. And kills you. And leaves you for dead.

Or something.

I'm getting off track.

It's easier to be bitter and angry towards you. Otherwise, I've gotta admit stuff about myself that I don't want to. You know how stubborn I am. You remember.

And yet, every time I hate you, I think of you first. Because regardless, I would have died that night. I would have died a quiet death, just to protect you from harm. If those Sabbat fucks had laid a hand on you...well. You know. You've seen me in action.

I digress. 

Or maybe I don't, since I don't even know the point of this letter. It's not like I need to cause you any more pain. Bitter as I am, I'd rather leave the hurting you part to someone else. Hell, maybe afterwards you'd let me fix you, for once.

And there I go again.

You've playfully and not playfully accused me of a lot of things. Stalking you. Haunting you. But really, who's haunting whom? Because it seems like no matter how much I try to blame you for this whirlwind of fuck-all crazy my life(?) has become, or how often I blame you for letting me die...I would still kneel at your feet, should you ask it of me. That word. That fucking word. I really CAN blame you for this one.

Love.

I'm never not gonna love you.

Should I curse you? Should I thank you? You certainly didn't save me, but god damn if you didn't make me feel something other than wholly absorbing blood lust and insanity. Ironic, that you kept my voices so quiet sometimes, and now that's all you are. A voice in my head. A stray whiff of clove and spice. Just strong enough to make me want to hit you and hug you. Because fuck, I still love you.

I'm pathetic.

I want to say you'd be proud of me, if you saw me now. I'm making something of myself, again. Letting people in. I'm stronger. Well, in some ways.

This is stupid. This is pointless. You're not gonna read this. If you ever did, it wouldn't matter. If you came back too, chances are I'd lose it completely.

Whatever.

                                                                                Never not yours,
                                                                                     Maddie"


https://youtu.be/7Gm8-V1Mhu8