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on-thedottedline-blog · 7 years ago

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Dear Tom, Part 2 (Final)

Dear Tom,

The next time we met you dressed differently. You had on a plain white shirt, sleeves rolled up, tucked into your pants. Your hair was slicked back with gel. Was this the night? You didn’t kiss me the first time we met. Was it because of what I said? I’m sorry I reached across the table too much for your hand.

“Hello stranger,” you smirked. You went in for a hug, I followed dutifully. You smelled like pencil shavings.

“It’s been a week!” I said, glancing briefly at the drinks lined up behind the bar. I didn’t drink on these sorts of nights. They were too important. I ordered a coke, you ordered a whiskey.

“You don’t drink?” You asked, looking rather confused. It was me who had suggested the bar.

“I do,” I replied. “But I always like to start off with something non-alcoholic. I’m a terrible drunk. It slows me down.”

“Ah,” you nodded, still looking a bit puzzled. Admittedly, I should’ve just had one drink. I realise now that it seems suspicious. Weird. I guess I’ll keep it in mind. Future reference? No, I don’t like to think so pessimistically.

I did have one drink later though, don’t you remember? It was when you had your hand on my knee, and we were sat in the booth, watching people around us dance, drink and laugh. We did that too, of course. Oh, I hope you’ve forgotten my dancing. I think you will have by now, it was truly awful, and you have more important things to think about I imagine.

“A gin and tonic for the lady,” you told the bar man. Ok, you slurred at the bar man. You were so drunk. You’d had three, small drinks. But you didn’t think twice about it, thank God.

Later that night, when it was nearly midnight actually, I asked you if you wanted to come back with me to my flat. We’d kissed by that point, but it was a rather slobbery, drunken attempt from you. I wanted you to sober up more. I never intended for you to be this drunk, you wouldn’t be conscious, you wouldn’t remember anything, and I really needed you.

“Is this a purely innocent invitation?” you joked, slurring again.

I felt myself frown. Things were not going as planned. You were supposed to be slightly hesitant, that was the fun of it. The push and pull. Kiss and catch.

“Of course,” I said. “But first I think you need to sober up a bit so you don’t puke all over the cab.”

I led you over to the table again, as by this point you’d gotten up to get another drink. You stumbled slightly, people didn’t even look twice. But this bothered me, and now you know why.

“Here,” I handed you a glass of water. Strictly water. And then another, and another. Eventually, you were better, still slightly hazy, but I was perfectly fine with that. In fact, being a little bit out of sorts is necessary for these sort of occasions, I’m sure you’d agree. I swear sometimes I can read your mind, you know.

Do you remember what happened next? I hope you do, I’ll make sure to ask you in the morning.

Dear Tom,

I just wanted to apologise for that racket this morning. I didn’t mean to trip, and for everything to fall like that. I’m sorry if it disturbed you.

I’m sorry if I disturbed you too when I asked. I know you were sleeping. That’s all you seem to do now, I wish you’d wake up and take notice of me like I take notice of you. I wish you’d think about me, because I can’t ever stop myself from thinking about you. I wish you loved me more for all I’ve done for you. I know you can’t do a lot of things anymore. I know that. It’s my fault. But I want something back. Is that too much to ask? I’m sorry for all of this. It’s such a ramble, it’s waffling, it’s nothing and it’s meaningless.

Dear Tom,

Are we still in love?

Sometimes, I can’t help but doubt that we are. It’s been three weeks now, you’ve all but gone. Each day you shrink smaller and smaller, in my memory and in reality. You sit there, you say nothing, you do nothing. I’m starting to think you’re a complete waste of time.

I’m sorry. Not this again.

I thought I could make you jealous, if I found someone else. I met Phil’s son today. He’s young, but not too young. Barely twenty-three, but he’s strong looking, his muscles seemed to strain under his shirt. You looked like that once.

I remember when I took your shirt off, you laughed, still out of it, and went to take off mine. I obliged. When we were both completely naked, I disappeared.

“Lucy?” You called after me. Oh, how stupid you looked there. A ship at waiting to sail, at full mast, but the sea unwilling.

“I’m just getting something,” I called back. Everything was ready, waiting. The ritual began, the ritual all women go through, where you cleanse yourself, rid yourself of the touches of other men in oils and soap and water. Then you cover yourself back up, lather yourself in thick, creamy scents that prevent you from harm. Every woman does this, Tom. Maybe another woman did this for you once, but I said I’d be your last and I was. I made it special.

I was about to leave the bathroom when I remembered it. I can’t believe I almost forgot.

“I’m back!” I smiled sweetly.

You jumped up from the bed, ran for the doors. I’d locked them. I could’ve tied you to the bed, claiming I had some kinky motive, but as I said, it’s the push and pull, the chase, the eventual catch that’s exciting.

“Lucy, please tell me this is some sort of weird kink that you have,” you said, finally out of breath with your back against the door.

I shook my head. You were being so stupid. You didn’t understand at all, just like the first one, the second one, the third.

“No, this is real. You’ll leave me otherwise. I know you don’t like me, you only kissed me because you were drunk, but I love you, Tom. I love all of you.”

Confessions are always so difficult. This one hurt because it was so true. Before, I’d said it and only half meant it, I only wanted them to stay longer, the company. But you, I wanted you so completely. All of you. I wasn’t good enough for you, I could tell you’d leave me eventually. A man like you is hard to find and even harder to keep.

“You crazy bitch,” you spat.

Right about now, your throat should have been drying up.

You coughed. Perfect timing.

“Do you want some water?” I offered, putting the knife down and walking over to the table where the jug was. I knew you wouldn’t go after the knife, your legs would have started to ache so much you could barely stand as well at this point.

I heard a thud.

“I can’t stand up,” you moaned. “I don’t want any water. Just let me go.”

I shook my head.

“I told you I love you, Tom.”

“Crazy bitch,” you repeated. Where did this misogynistic language come from, Tom? You told me your mother had been an activist once in the 60’s. “What did you put in my drink?”

You were huddled against the door, looking even more pathetic than before. I felt like laughing, like dancing. What a sight that would’ve been, don’t you agree?

“Oh, nothing much,” I shrugged. “Just enough to keep you here for a while.”

I sat down on the edge of the bed, staring at you from above. You started to writhe on the floor, moaning quietly and clutching your stomach.

“Please come and sit on the bed,” I said. “The floor isn’t very comfortable, or so I’ve been told.”

Your eyes widened in horror. “You’ve done this before?”

“I told you I’d been with other people,” I replied, rolling my eyes. “Don’t you remember?”

“I didn’t mean…” but your voice started trailing off, I could tell you were blacking out. Once you went limp, I dragged you on top of the bed and grabbed the knife I’d previously put down. Slowly, I started to trace the outline of an ‘L’ on your chest. Blood teamed the surface of your skin, slowly at first, but then when I cut deeper it started to run.

That’s when you woke up, but you didn’t speak, you couldn’t even move. Only unintelligible sounds came out of your mouth. So, I continued, carving carefully my entire name, a label.

Dear Tom,

I’m sorry my letter ended so abruptly, my mother called again.

“Lucy?” Her voice was rather breathless, anxious.

“What?” I said. I was slightly annoyed, I was mid flow for god’s sake, I was just about to get to the good part! That’s the part you can’t remember much, I could tell, your eyes kept rolling into the back of your head.

“I’ve just been watching the news, they say four people have now gone missing in two months, it’s getting ridiculous. It’s all in the city too, Lucy, I want you to be careful. Do you still carry that pepper spray I got you?”

I held back laughter.

“Mum,” I complained. “I’m not a child, I can look after myself. Anyway, they say it’s all men, clearly whoever it isn’t interested in women.”

“I don’t care, everyone looks the same in the dark. Don’t be going out at night by yourself, always take your Tom with you, and tell him to be careful too.”

Did you hear that? Your Tom. You’re mine, Tom. I told you so.

I put the phone, ecstatic. I had made the news. I wish I could tell my mother the truth, would she be proud? Are you proud? Your face won’t be on there. I did it differently this time.

Once you’d blacked out completely, blood still trickling from the ‘Y’, I went and looked for your phone amongst the pile of your clothes on the floor. You were so careless, I folded them neatly and placed them in my wardrobe, so they wouldn’t get wet.

I had guessed that your phone had a lock on it, but your password was instantly recognisable. I had watched you type it out a few times now, and I was sure of the number. But even so, you’d manage to leave sweaty smudges on the screen the last time you’d unlocked it. 2892. Your birthday.

I scrolled through your contacts, taking note of all the female names.

Danielle.

Jess.

Lucy.

Mark.

Mum.

Finally! Also, who’s Danielle? She last texted you two days ago, asking where you were. I told her I was in Greece, like I’d told your parents. A month-long holiday. Spur of the minute. Over time, you’d meet someone over there. Lucy? You’d keep in occasional contact, but you’d never go home again.

I know it’s not a flawless plan, but it’s something. I just didn’t’ want to have to get rid of you like the others, I wanted to keep you. Besides, I had to destroy their phones, I had to beg them not to tell anyone they were meeting me or anything about me, I was having an ‘affair’ you see, I had an abusive boyfriend, he would kill me if he knew. They were helping me to flee.

But I wanted something different with you, a real relationship, something I could tell my mother about, that we could keep and grow. Discarding is boring, repetitive. I could do whatever I wanted with you.

Dear Tom,

This is my last letter to you, Tom.

I know you can’t hear me, I know you’re not listening anymore. Every morning, I uncurl myself from your body, now rigid, hard and kiss you. Your lips are cold, unmoving, blue. There’s still blood on your chest, but it’s old now. Your body isn’t the same, it wasn’t from the moment I dug the knife into your chest. Why did I keep you here? I should have just let you go and be done with it, like the others.

Every night the others tease me in their heads, out of spite and jealousy. Their bodies lie heaped in a dank hole in the furthermost corner of the unused quarry on the edge of town. I don’t know why I chose there. Maybe it just seemed fitting. Nothing marks their resting place, but Tom, my love, I mark yours.

I don’t know what to do anymore. My entire flat reeks of you and the blood will never wash off that nice dress I wore. What else do I have but you, this bed, this forgotten knife?

I think I should probably end this now. This letter will be kept with the others, folded neatly, placed together at the foot of our bed. An explanation of sorts, although my mother won’t be here for days.

So maybe this isn’t just to you, Tom, it’s to everyone. All those families I tore apart, my own included, the police, a judge, the public, everyone I’ve ever known. But I can’t bring myself to say sorry, because in my mind I haven’t done anything wrong. I was lonely, and those men meant company. I was bored and killing ruptured the monotonous path my life was taking. It was the only solution.

They’ll find me next to you, Tom. Foetal position, ironic in death, with the same knife that ended you clearly dealing the same fate to me. The same hands too. Will we be together then, do you think?

I hope so.

All my love, Lucy.

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on-thedottedline-blog · 7 years ago

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Dear Tom-Part 1

Dear Tom,

I’m not entirely sure what I’ve done. I’m writing to you because you’re the only man I’ve ever loved. I thought I loved a man who walked by me in the street today, but then I saw him stop and pet a dog on the leash of a beautiful woman. As you know, both of those things disgust me. I almost vomited right there and then. Can you imagine? Do you remember when I threw up at all that mess on the floor once? It got all over you. But you were a good sport. Barely batted an eyelid.

Dear Tom,

I never meant for it to happen, honestly. I know, time and time again I say that to myself, to you, and it never manifests into anything. I’m useless, I admit it.

My mother called me again today, she asked about you. I told her you were in London, on some business trip. She tutted, “when will I get to meet your mystery man?’” she asked. That woman is so persistent, and then she even asked if she could pop round! It was far too messy here, though, so I told her I’d drive home and see her and Steve.

“Hello love,” she beamed as soon as she opened the door. I noted the peeling, dirty white paint on the door. There were also scratches just about knee height, no doubt the work of Bill, their cat. Well, truly he was Bill II, the first one being dead, of course.

“Hello, mum,” I said. As usual, I stepped in after her, quickly glimpsing around before I went in. You never really know who’s watching.

“Busy week?” she asked once we were in the kitchen. She flicked the switch on the kettle. I heard Steve padding down the stairs.

“Not really,” I replied. In truth, my week had been jam-packed, I had cooked every single night that week, been out most nights too. God, it had been cold though.

“How’s work?”

The kettle whistled. I shrugged. Was she really asking me about work? Work was menial. I spent my days photocopying, mainly. My boss was an imbecile- a lecherous, middle aged man named Phil. He stared at my chest whenever he got the chance, barely bothering to pretend otherwise. I wasn’t even sure what he did, or what I was meant to do. All I knew was that I had to be at the dingy old building for 8am sharp Monday to Friday and that’s about it.

“It’s ok. Bit of a slow week.” I said. I had to say something.

My mother nodded thoughtfully, as if this was some sort of meaningful remark. She began to pour the kettle, three mini waterfalls of boiling hot water into three mugs. One, a winnie the pooh one. That was hers. The other two were Father’s Day ones, bought by my mother from me to Steve, who wasn’t really my father, only a poor replacement.

“It’s such a shame your Tom couldn’t come,” I heard my mother say, as we walked into the living room, where Steve was sat, one hand on the remote, one hand on his large stomach, on the sofa.

“He sounds like such a nice boy from what you say. What did you say he does again?”

Did, I corrected her in my head.

“He’s a lawyer.” I answer. “Or something like that.”

Again, my mother beamed.

“A lawyer, did you hear that, Steve? Our Lucy’s with a lawyer.”

Steve made a sort of grunting sound. She took that as a sufficient enough reply and nodded.

“Mum,” I moaned. “It’s early days yet.”

At least that was true. When did we meet? I can’t remember now. But I’ll never forget where it was, in that coffee shop with the chalkboards displaying the menu. I ordered a caramel latte, you ordered a black coffee. I remember you looked different from your profile picture. Less bearded, more smiley.

My mother, as usual, ignored my remark. She told me about her friend Mary, who had just left her husband who cheated on her last year. She told me about someone knocking over the vase of flowers on my grandfather’s grave. She told me about Steve’s back problems. I listened. You know I never had it in me to really pay attention though.

We ate tea, which was some sort of pie. Potato? No, cheese and onion. I realise you don’t really care about this though. I suppose you don’t really care about anything now.

I left about 7. I needed an early night.

Dear Tom,

I’m lying in bed. I can’t stop thinking about when we met. You had on this strange sort of plaid shirt, it was a combination of colours I’d never seen before. Red, orange, blue, black. If I’m honest, it clashed. It didn’t work, really. Neither did the laid back, casual sort of style you tried to achieve that day. As soon as you sat down, I knew you were far more interesting than that.

Now, I haven’t been with many men, and I told you that. You didn’t seem to mind. In fact, you didn’t say anything really. I guess you couldn’t. You just sort of looked at me. But I knew as soon as you walked in you were a different sort of man than I was used to. I knew I could love you. Far too easily.

“This is really odd,” was the first thing you said to me. Not even a hello, you were strange, quirky-it was cute.

“Why?” I smiled. Inside, I felt far more nervous than I let on. It was annoyingly difficult to find men who were actually willing to meet up with me rather than just see pictures. I wasn’t willing to pose for those type of things, I told you that too. You said you weren’t the type of man to ask.

“We’ve talked so much online,” you said. “But we’re only now just meeting. In a way, you’re a stranger, but I already know so much about you.”

“Oh really?” I grinned, trying to keep a light tone. “What’s my favourite colour then?”

You laughed.

“You don’t have one,” you said. “You said favourite colours are arbitrary.”

“Correct,” I said. “I’m impressed you remember, it was one of the first things I ever said to you.”

“That’s because it’s only pick up line, and you ruined it.”

“It was a pick up line?”

“Yes, you were meant to say red, blue whatever. And then you’d ask what mine was, obviously. I’d say ‘beautiful’, and you’d say ‘that’s not a colour’, but then, I would ever so charmingly reply that it was the colour of your eyes.”

I felt myself blush, even though it was horrifically cheesy. You were so lovely to me on that first date, the first evening. I hated it when you left, claiming that you had to get up early the next morning for work. I offered to come with you in your briefcase. That was a slight faux pas, you smiled, but it didn’t reach your eyes, and I was terrified that I’d completely messed up.

“So, um, until next time?” you said before we parted on the corner.

The ‘next time’ made everything ok again, though. How did you not hear that sigh of relief?

#writing #creativewriting #shortstories #story #writer #horror #words #creative #stories #shortstory #writing is hard #writeblr #writers #short

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