A Message For "..."

Blood

I found your last letter soaked in blood.

I could only just read it, but that isn't the issue.
Who did you spill the blood from?
I know you did it.
You're the only person I know who would do such a thing.

They're dead, aren't they?
My apartment is spotless, but the scent of harsh chemicals lingers among my wooden floor.
You don't scrub down an entire floor after someone injures themselves.
At least you cleaned up for me.

I don't want to kill them.
I could never harm another human being.
Physically, anyway.
I'm not strong enough.
Besides, it would be the wrong way to handle things.

I'm stuck with them, anyway.
They pretend to care, but at least they pretend to.
No one else pretends.
They just turn their backs on me.

I'm helpless, you're right about that.
Though it took me awhile to admit it.
I don't want to be dependent on anyone or anything.
But that's not how life works.

You infuriate me.
You speak the truth, and it stabs me.
You stabbed the person whose blood is splattered all over your last message.
Didn't you think I'd notice that all my knives, which I haven't used in ages, had been cleaned?
My attention to detail is still there.
Even though my better qualities are fading.

You think you're so superior.
You think you have the right to murder someone in my apartment for no reason.
You think you have the right to write to me.
Why?

You're nothing special.
You're a real life monster.
Just like how you described yourself.
And that's the closest I'll probably get to finding out who you are.

You keep saying that I'll figure it out.
But I can't.
I've spend many hours pouring over your messages.
And no ideas come to me.
Not even after the murder.
You keep making vague hints about something.
But will those hints help me?

I'll see.

I'm only writing this chapter now because I had a sudden idea that I had to use. But I'm sure you all are used to my unorganised writing.

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