Work Text:
Michel understood the appeal of murder.
Michel Liu's place was not somewhere one could simply waltz into. Michel Liu's was not somewhere one could simply send mail to. Every. Fucking. Day.
In fact, Michel found that she quite understood the decision of Eurydice's witness. Michel, too, would flee the country to escape Eurydice Knight.
She considered the cheque still on her desk. She supposed she had the funds to do it now.
Michel sighed to herself, not bothering to open the newest letter. Eurydice liked to seal her envelopes with a red wax stamp of her own initials— EK— in a flowing script. The envelope itself was thick, coloured in a soft shade of cream, screaming of wealth the same way the smooth texture of the paper inside did. Eurydice Knight was, if nothing else, flaunting. Michel would gather all the letters into a pile and burn them if she didn't worry that the smoke would set off the fire alarm, or that the flames would catch onto her canvas.
Dear Michel, they always started, and it was the Dear that always made Michel's teeth grit first. Common letter etiquette, she knew, but Eurydice had a talent for making the mundane unbearable. Never let it be said that Michel did not acknowledge Eurydice's talent.
She put the letter away into the little basket that had once been where she would dump her half-baked sketches and formless strokes of paint that would never amount to anything. It was, really, her secondary business that kept her afloat, so much so that is might as well be her primary one. Michel contemplated the letter. She still used that basket to shelve away her unfinished thoughts. It was fitting, she supposed, that Eurydice should end up in the same folder.
Michel sighed to herself again and picked the letter back up. The wax seal broke with a satisfyingly clean break, red bowing under Michel's fingers and giving away. It settled something within Michel.
The letter was unremarkable.
It began, as always, with the obnoxious address of Dear Michel. It proceeded to ask about her fake driving license, as she had in each of her letters. Michel was sometimes tempted to write back if only to say, And here I thought you didn't want it.
The letter veered, then, swiftly into the banal, as it always did. A court case, another missing witness, an interaction at the grocery store— Eurydice simply loved to talk about her own goddamn self. In this particular letter, Eurydice recounted the tale of an encounter with a priest. A witness, from what Michel could tell, or maybe a suspect; Eurydice lingered very little on the legal details in this letter, as she sometimes tended to do. Still, Michel doubted that Eurydice was particularly devout. It was bound to be a professional visit. Michel wasn't sure why she cared—she didn't. And yet, she read the letter till the end. She was curious by nature, maybe, or simply bored and trying to delay putting her mind towards reality. She really needed to clean her brushes and palette out.
The ending segment of the letter was as predictable as the beginning. Every fucking letter, without fail, Eurydice asked about Michel's paintings. Was Michel working on anything currently? Did she want a model? Eurydice could provide a model. Simply say the word. She knew Michel's type, after all. Eurydice would make a wonderful muse. Didn't Michel think so? Eurydice was considering coming down to Michel's studio. What did Michel think of that? It had been a few weeks now, and Eurydice had yet to show up at Michel's studio, so Michel was certain it was nothing more than an empty threat. That did not stop the threat from landing a precise hit of horror and disgust in Michel's heart every single time.
Then, of course, there was the finale, the merciful end to this letter. Michel looked forward to it each time with as much relief as she did trepidation, because Eurydice Knight liked to sign of all of her letters the same way: Hey, this is crazy, but here's my address. Mail me maybe? Ever faithfully yours (only yours!), Eurydice Knight (call me Eury!!)
Michel truly, truly had a deep and passionate understanding of the appeal of murder. She only just stopped herself from crumpling the letter in her hands, or from tearing it to shreds, or from doing something equally wise. Instead, she put the letter back into its obnoxious little envelope and let it collect dust in her abandoned-thoughts basket. It was the only place anything relational to Eurydice Knight deserved to be.
Michel dusted her hands off as though to shake away the remnants of Eurydice the letter rudely brought with it, then contemplated her untainted canvas. She was drawing a blank, hitting a wall for where to go with this. She glanced to the side. She shifted the cheque. Eurydice Knight's face stared back up at her.
The driving license was complete. It had been for a few days now. Michel found herself reluctant to send it off. She didn't understand why. One little post, and Michel would be rid of Eurydice Knight's pestering letters forever, she was sure. Or it would make it worse. That was also a possibility, a revolting one. Eurydice might take the driving license as encouragement of her antics, although Michel wasn't sure how much worse it could get than daily mail. Unannounced visits, like that first one? Michel would have to find a gun and shoot herself, or go the more classic route and hang herself. Alternatively, she could shoot Eurydice. Now, there was an idea.
Aspen Colorado, mocked the driving license. There was something deeply wrong with that woman.
The issue, she told herself, was that she didn't usually mail her products. It was far too risky. She was more in the habit of sending a discrete it's ready letter instead, and her client would come pick it up. She was loathe to do so with Eurydice, loathe to send an invitation, of all things, because that would surely, certainly, definitely encourage her antics. Michel shuddered to think of it.
So what was she to do instead? Suffer letters and stare down at Eurydice Knight's insufferably smug face every day while her canvas remained as blank and bland and uninspired as ever?
Michel sighed on final time. She needed to get Eurydice Knight out of her hair. That was what would help her.
Michel, already finding herself steeped in regret, put pen to paper.