Deary Me

Some letters are best left unopened…

It has been such a long time since we last spoke — I dare to think how many years have passed since you last reached out to me. If I were to hazard a guess, it must be at least a decade or so since we last met with one another…

Three thousand, three hundred, and fifty-three days have passed since you abandoned me — not that anyone’s counting.

Letters have always fascinated me. Their archaic nature reminds me of a time that has long since passed. Who could forget those sweet love letters sent from doting partners, or greeting cards sent to celebrate the number of years loved ones have spent circling the sun.

Please forgive the handwriting and its sinister aesthetics, it is not my intention to frighten you or dramatise this letter further. Yes, to the untrained eye, the jittering lines and the harsh scratch indentations on the page will appear psychotic. It is safe to assume most people would have chucked this letter into the fire by now, but not you…

Instead, your curiosity will fire up to such a heat that your brain will light up like a basement pinball machine. The retro sound effects and the arcade music will flood your brain until all sounds from the outside world will be squeezed tightly into a sealed jam jar. A range of unnerving thoughts will rattle around your mind as I stand by the console, ready to push your buttons.

By this point, your eyebrows have collapsed as though they were a bridge supporting too much weight. Static electricity has trickled down to the base of your spine as my words entertain the senses. Without moving your head, your eyes dart from one word to the next before jumping across the page like some possessed typewriter.

Deep in concentration, you have bitten down on your bottom lip, which you occasionally do when you get nervous. But please don’t bite down too hard; we wouldn’t want you to draw blood…

There was a time when we were such great pals. We had a special connection you and I, a bond that was impossible to break. We were so close, in fact, some would say we were inseparable — like two peas in a pod!

There I was, left to drown alone in a puddle of gravy while you were hand-picked and lifted to such great heights and consumed by forces far more prominent than your own.

Talking of heights, it was amazing how quickly you soared. I remember before all the fame and money, how you the ‘aspiring man of the people’, dreamt of being chased down the street by his adoring fans. Billed as the working class hero, you would parade your trophy wife around town, reminding everyone how she was voted Miss World not twice but three times running!

Back in the old days, the reality was somewhat different: You weren’t chased by your fans but by your old landlord who was chasing after your rent arrears. There were no fans in sight, and the only thing hanging off your arm was the wooden handle of your tattered old umbrella.

I was there when you broke down in your flat after it all got a little too much. In your desperation, you thought it would be a great idea to remove all your garments and drown yourself in litres of vodka. You were a complete state, pointing and cackling at your distorted reflection in the mirror.

Sitting on the floor with your head against the radiator, you gripped the vodka bottles so tightly they were in danger of smashing and splintering into pieces. Ashamed and reeling in failure, you chose to forget these episodes and hide them somewhere in that labyrinth head of yours.

I think by now, your mind is racing from pillar to person wondering who on earth could be writing this beautiful letter to you. Are they male or female? Old or young? Skinny or fat? Friend or foe? Maybe I’m all of the above… after all, It isn’t out of the realms of possibility that the writer of this letter is a middle-aged, average-sized, transsexual with blue hair!

Oh, don’t you just love the suspense?

No, I’m not Michael Breadling… Jesus, the man can barely read! How the hell would he have the imagination and craft to write such poetic sonnets?! Anyway, Michael is probably preoccupied with a paint it by numbers colouring book. With his tongue hanging out of his mouth, the poor bugger is fighting to colour inside of the lines.

Now, where was I…? Oh yes! It is always easy to forget where you come from, especially when you get propelled high above the crowd. Every day, people lie awake at night dreaming of a chance to make it big. Oh, they grapple with the mediocrity of their dull lives in their sleep. Their dreams dashed continuously by their snoring partner, who huffs and puffs out of both ends.

But for you, this life became a reality.

Like a bolt out of the blue, you became a household name in London — from west end shows to big blockbuster movies in Hollywood. It was hard to know how it transpired, but it did. It didn’t matter if it came from luck, hard work or commitment, or a mixture of all three. What mattered was that you had finally made it.

Everyone was delighted for you and wanted to revel in your success. Yet despite this love and appreciation, you turned your back on everyone you knew. Collecting a shovel from the shed, you violently severed the roots that had kept you grounded for all those years. You didn’t even have the courtesy to watch those relationships topple as you made off into the distance…

You moved to the other side of the planet not long after with your wealth and fortune in tow. A whirlwind followed, with more leading roles and handfuls of advertising campaigns that made you obscenely wealthy. Who needs friends when you are rich enough to hire your own a-list agent who could open any unlocked door? I didn’t take to your agent, I mean the bloke was so far up your arse, it was hard to tell where you started and he finished!

In those days, you could get away with absolute murder. Those with the fame and wealth wielded their power like an axe, stopping at nothing until they fulfilled their deepest and darkest fantasies.

In the mind of a megalomaniac, it makes complete sense: What is the use of power if you are not going to abuse it?

After you had your way with those poor women on that ill-fated night, you dumped me out on the hotel steps. From that point on, I was forced to watch your world from afar. I knew that the smile you flashed to the camera wasn’t one of triumph; it was one of fear, one that showed weakness. Petrified, that others in time may learn of your dirty little secrets.

Your teeth were so bleached that they no longer looked like your own. I briefly wondered if you had any other work done, and scrutinized your face whenever I saw you in magazines or in newspapers. I don’t understand why people like you get treated differently to the average Joe on the street. I mean, you didn’t invent the light bulb, nor did you come up with the theory of relativity. All you did was pretend to be someone else.

Your ego blew up to such a size I thought you were going to float up into the air like some unanchored helium airship. But the weight of what was to come kept you bobbing ever so slightly above the ground. The famous people in Hollywood grew tired of you. Your wife (Miss World x3, if you haven’t forgotten already) found a young aspiring pop star and divorced you and took the kids.

This upset you deeply. You weren’t sad because you would miss your wife or children. Nor were you furious at the prospect of a younger man placing his filthy paws all over your ex-wife’s thighs. No, you were seething because you had lost control. For the first time in a long time, you were utterly powerless to prevent any of this from taking place.

You met other women in the years that passed. They were pretty, of course, but they were the sort of women that floated around at a party looking for the next partner to clamber over. They used their partners head and shoulders as the rungs of a makeshift ladder to try and reach the next level of status.

Yet you ‘limped’ on with your fancy estates and your collection of glistening sports cars. Even if you were to never work again, you wouldn’t face the hardship like those poor souls who haven’t got a pot to piss in.

No, you wouldn’t know poverty if it slapped you in the face with a wooden spoon…

But here is the catch. From the outside looking in, your life appears all hunky-dory! The world you inhabit, the environment that swirls around your big head, couldn’t seem more blissful. This blinkered viewpoint might fool the masses, but it doesn’t fool me.

It was a couple of days ago when I caught a glimpse of your reflection in the French windows that overlook the vast grounds of your mansion. I caught a glimpse of the tears rolling down your cheeks as you stood there, holding a tumbler in one hand and a lighted cigarette in the other. I saw your hands trembling; your body unable to deal with the prescribed drugs that course through your veins. The lamps remained on the entire evening, and yet I didn’t see this as a deterrent; instead, I saw it as a beacon for me to join you in the light.

If you have never broken into someone’s home before, do yourself a favour and give it a try. There is this incredible buzz that sweeps your entire body when you burst into someone’s private space.

I move silently pass those hideous paintings hanging on the wall and stroll into your study. You are nowhere to be seen, and I am drawn to a massive oak desk.

It shouldn’t come as a surprise to you that I have spent many nights in this study. In fact, this letter was one of many that were orchestrated in this room. As I’m in the mood for confession, let me share one of my most troubling secrets: For years, the guilt and shame of what happened to those women in that hotel room has eaten at the very fiber of my being.

Those young models, who would do anything to become famous, were ushered into your room and pumped full of drugs. Their vulnerability and youthful ambitions were seized upon in the most horrifying ways, unaware of what was going on until it was too late. Each woman forced to carry out the most demonising acts before being passed around the group like a rolled-up joint.

When they were no longer required, the women were cast out into the street-thrown to the ground and kicked to the curb. No one would hear their cries as their fight for justice went up in smoke. This night would end up ruining their lives because there is no bright future for those that have been branded like cattle.

I have sympathy for all of your victims, but my heart bleeds for poor Josie Saunders, one of the girls from that hotel room episode. Despite her statements and eye witness accounts, in the face of the overwhelming evidence that pointed to foul play, the authorities ignored her.

Her family stuck by her, but this sadly wasn’t enough. The pain became too much, and with nowhere to go, Josie decided there was only one way to escape her suffering.

Now that makes sense… I mention Josie Saunders’s name, and you automatically draw the conclusion that the author of this letter is one of her family members. There isn’t a father in existence who wouldn’t want the head of the man who ruined his little girl’s life. Although a stain on your reputation, he never did stop campaigning for the justice of Josie.

Although Mr Saunders will never get his daughter back, the actions I have taken might go some way in reducing his pain. If anything, he might finally get the closure he and his family deserve. It won’t come as a shock to you to learn that I have taken the liberty of writing to your victims and their families, telling them exactly what happened that night in the hotel room nearly ten years ago.

I have made it clear that there will be no opposition from your legal representatives, and you will accept the harsh sentences that are likely to follow. By the time you read these words, the handcuffs will be close to knocking…

Please believe me when I say that none of this is done out of jealousy. My motives are entirely pure, and despite my damning words, and less than complimentary portrayal of your character, please let the record show that I did this for you. In writing these confessions, I, too, have implicated myself in the charges that will be summoned against us both.

Although it may appear somewhat of a Kamikaze move, I can assure you this can be the change for good we both desperately need. My existence has been incredibly lonely without you, and now you have unknowingly let me back into your life; we can go back to being the way were before.

You will be hugely disappointed to find out that I’m not going to be what you were expecting. I’m not a person or a thing but a state of mind — your state of mind.

After that night in the hotel room nearly a decade ago, you made a pact to forget my warnings, and you panicked. Collecting your shovel from the shed, you took me out into the hotel grounds and buried me.

In this way, you suppressed your feelings, unaware that over time they would manifest themselves into a vehicle that would begin to take control of your mind. Our roles have been reversed, and I’m now the one who stands above your grave. It will be me looking down on the avalanche that will soon be crashing down on your body.

You won’t remember scribbling out this letter, nor will you recall signing your name and address on the envelope. There will be no recollection of the taste of wet dog on your tongue as you lick the back of the postage stamp and place it ever so gently on the corner of the envelope.

After three thousand, three hundred, and fifty-three days justice can finally be delivered…