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My Dearest Ethan,
Forgive me, but I cannot… I can no longer draw breath without your name teasing my lips.
I can no longer slumber without my dreams conjuring your visage.
My dearest Ethan
As my heart fell for thee, so did my quill to paper
This is the story of my reincarnation.
Some find beauty in roses
Others in letters of amorous sentiment
I think that’s rather repulsive, my dearest.
Love is repulsive
As am I.
And yet through all my abominable imperfection… you love me.
Me. A treacherous, a strange
a prodigy or a sicko
if anything, these are just labels formulated by
weak minds that cannot fathom that death is as beautiful as life and that its horrors can be magnificent.
I used to think if men couldn’t find the beauty in darkness, how could they truly appreciate the resplendence of light?
Chiaroscuro.
Which are we for each other, dearest Ethan? Or are we both?
Love is not precious nor a treasure
It is an evil sickness of the mind.
Or so I thought. Until I met you.
Repulsive, strange poison it had always been, this thing called love.
Though not as revolting or pernicious as me.
And yet I longed for it. Oh did I burn for it!
Sought it in poetry and prose and in every nimble gesture of my scalpel-wielding hand.
Is it not strange how you see in someone that which doesn’t befit your idea of perfection- and grow to covet them all the same?
Love is not logical, it never has possessed that quality.
There is no logic to a gunslinger for hire- an enchanting man who crossed violent oceans to escape his demons- becoming enamoured with a monster like myself.
And yet through all my abominable imperfection...
You do.
You love me.
You taught me to defend myself with both cutting tongue and pistol. You taught me that in harboring a tolerance to my eccentricities I might, in kind, be more accepting of them as well.
That these sweet aberrations as I call them may even appreciate me.
I ran out of ink again, my love.
My hands are stained with it and under this low light of one dying candle it might as well be blood.
Their state makes me shiver.
But returning to us, my dearest Ethan.
I don’t think love can be a person embodied.
And if love is a disturbance of the brain, then I am the most disturbed of all men in London.
Oh, how gracious would it be if we were all perfect puzzles or machines?
If the electrical waves were focused solely on invention instead of playing this hurtful game of cat and mouse and... trap.
I’ve read what I’ve scrawled thus far, Ethan, and I fear I may have lost the plot. Is this a bad idea, an undertaking best left to Keats and Wordsworth?
Why am I doing this to myself? Why am I trying to impress you with my jagged thoughts when you already hold claim to my rather stunted heart?
I look around and there is something missing.
I want for the bookshelf and the tomes it contains. I scarcely recall the scent of dry blood on my metallic tools. This place is not mine. It is not ours.
I crave sharing with you what we yet don't possess- isn't that absurd?
What I miss most is... you. I need to finish this letter to you, my beautiful wolf, or my angst will end me.
Heart grows fonder, they say, yet so does the distance. It brings to me the ghost touch of our last kiss. Its urgency still makes me tremble and throbs upon my lips.
I hate to admit it, but I need this ink my love. I need these words – this sophomoric attempt at a love letter bleeding from my hand onto parchment.
From my mind, from my heart, from the deepest shadowed desire of the twisted person I am – I ache for you.
Regret, after love, is the worst feeling, is it not?
This is my feeble attempt, then.
Lest I burst into desperation
Lest I burst into flames and perish...
My dearest one, please forgive my melancholy. I should have revealed it to you then, I should have said it back when you opened yourself to me, your hungry gaze boring into mine.
I had surmised you knew- how mistaken was I?
I love you, Ethan Chandler. Not even the most furious of tempests could keep me from you- so please... find your way back into my arms at your earliest opportunity.
Let me show just how much I yearn for you.
Be well - and godspeed your return.
Eternally yours,
Victor