Burn This Once You Read It

September 2nd? Year unknown.

I'm writing this in secret so please don't write me back. The doctors think I’ve gone mad. I must tell you you're the one person who would believe that I have not. In these recent days..minutes..maybe months I’ve started to regain consciousness of the fact I am alive. That my veins are pulsating, that my heart is beating feverishly, and that my thoughts are words and not innate grunts of dissatisfaction. I’ve also begun to remember. I'm remembering bits and pieces of what happened that night, please do tell me if you remember too. Because for now my memories are kind reminiscences of all of us together, the taste of warm whiskey and bourbon staining my mouth, the jazz that played so smoothly I thought I may drift away, and the faint comfort of home that nestled in my stomach. I will continue to update you as things happen, I know you're the one person who would care.

My time here in the hospital has been quite plainly miserable. The food is rather bland and the only music that plays comes from the kitchen which consists of the Top 100 pop. They've had numerous therapists, psychologists, and psychiatrists come in to "examine me.” Why? Oh your guess is as good as mine. You know I’ve always believed that doctors have no idea what they're talking about. Medical books were based on studies, those studies came from some sort of hypothesis, and that hypothesis is just a guess as to what the hell they're trying to figure out! It's ridiculous! Plain stupid. But these people, the therapists and so on I mean. They act like they have something to tell me. Something so grand that it must be told quite cautiously. I am yet to identify what this mystery could be.

The other patients are quite far from me, I live in my own quarters and sleep in an isolated room. You have to understand how confusing it is to wake up and be completely unaware of everything around you. Unaware of who you are or better yet what you are! I had not one clue I was human, or that I was anything more than atoms in a white room. Once I woke up for the first time—though the memory is quite unclear, I recall these men in white coats injecting me with some needle filled to the brim in a clear liquid. Whatever was in there made me deliriously drowsy.

Wait!! I hear them coming and so I must go. I will continue to write. Please stay safe and burn this once you read it. My writing is highly identifiable. I don't remember my name but I’m sure you do.

-you know who I am

September 16th. I am still not sure about the year.

Hello. It's been about two weeks since I’ve written and since that first letter was thrown into the mail only two things have happened. First, I have been unable to find my left shoe. Second, I remember a bit more. It was October wasn't it? I recollect Charlie's comment about the crispness of the air. Crisp…such a fun word I would say. The word starts in the middle of your mouth then pushes to behind your teeth before being spit out on the final p. A delightful word to pronounce. One I find so particularly fascinating I remember going on this same tangent that night. Charlie then said it was dry weather and that the auburn color of the leaves was reminding him of his dreadful ex. God, that was such a painful conversation. Anyways, this leads me to believe it was October. That’s when everything happened. I’ve been trying so desperately to remember. Honest to the universe that surrounds us.

What another funny thing I’m beginning to understand. The universe. The transcendence of the world around us. For we are nothing in comparison to it. We are molecules in this never ending vastness of matter that could swallow us at any moment. Sometimes I wish it would, I would prefer to be consumed by a grand hole of nothing than to be the victim of my own mind again. Impulsivity is just a part of me, the doctors have said it's fixable but I highly disagree. Even if it was, I would never allow them to suck it from my soul. The impulsivity has made me who I am today. It has created the genius who is writing this letter. Genius, I guess that's an over exaggeration. Intellectual. That's the word I choose. What word would you choose?

I think about you a lot. Although I don't remember anything about what we’ve done, who I am when I’m with you, or honestly who you are as a person, I know the feeling I have rooted deep inside my heart. It’s warm. You're warm.

I also have one more thing I remember about that night. We were sitting together and our hands were intertwined. You were holding my hand tightly, as if something were going to tear us apart but you couldn't let go. I’m not sure what it could have been but I know there was something contradicting brewing in the air….excitement and fear. I’m starting to realize that my emotions and sensory factors are returning to me faster than the facts of my life. I would like to know who I am. Who I was. And more greatly what I did to end up here.

-Love always,

…

November 1st. 19..something

Not sure how long it's been since I've written but I can assume it's been a while. Time is strange here. But like Kant says, time is an internal framework. It's subjective..a matter of perspective. So, from my perspective it's perhaps been a few months. Less than a year but more than a few weeks.

They have chosen a specific doctor to meet with me consistently. Dr. Patterwood. He reminds me of someone, I am not sure who but he's very familiar. He's competent. He talks slowly and thoughtfully which I can appreciate. He’s always wearing a blue knit sweater that looks comfortable. He has these small round glasses that sit on the bridge of his nose like a decoration. He's older and I can almost guarantee he's a grandpa. I can tell because of the way he treats people, so patiently and with such care. His kindness is natural and almost unsettling. He's helping me remember more. I just really wish I could just know what happened. But they won't tell me despite the fact they know. I feel rather pathetic.

To make myself feel a bit better, I will tell you what I do know it as best of chronological matter as I can:

I got to the house for dinner with our friend group on a chilly October afternoon. Charlie and Lousia were already there. You came shortly after Richard and Henry. We ate at the table which was candlelit, then we moved to sit in front of the fire and ate cheesecake. It was Henry's great grandmother's recipe and it was delicious. We talked and drank. The fire was warm against the cool leather seats of Charlotte's dimly lit den. I sat beside you, quite happily I may add.

Then an argument broke out and Richard grew angry. He blamed you for something, something so superficial it was upsetting he even thought it would affect you. But it did. That’s when you let go of my hand and stood up. You said something else and then Ricahrd stood and yelled. You screamed back. It was strange because this version of me had never seen you angry. You were the one who was always composed and mellow. The level headed patient being who couldn't hurt something unless it hurt…well, me. It's making me morbidly curious. It is incredible how the unknown gnaws at the conscious mortal mind. Over the amount of time I’ve been here I have become a victim to it. To the cruelty of the neurons racing inside my skull.

I’m starting to wonder if I will ever know what I’ve done. Signing off with what I remember of my name;

-R.

November 14th.

What the hell did you do to me? I remember.

December 2nd.

I'm finally awake again. After my last letter, which I don't remember, I fell into a deep sleep. I forgot a lot of what I had finally begun to remember which is really unfortunate because I feel like I have to restart the mental destruction to myself. Self inflicted torture is the most satisfying yet macabre form of agony one could experience. Maybe I’m a masochist, I would honestly find that amusing. I’m sure Dr. Patterwood would too. He's grown on me, maybe the father-like nature of his soul is a comfort even to the most deeply disturbed.

I’ve been missing you more and more lately. Your warmth would be exceptionally pleasant at the moment. I know something more now, you're someone I loved very much. And you loved me with the same capacity one could. I've started to see more and more of your crystal blue eyes and I keep seeing a moment where they fade of spirit. Like…I'm watching you die through the dilation of your pupils. It’s only a dream though, right?

I’m remembering something more about that night. Richard, I didn't like him. We all didn't. In actuality he was a bully, a spawn of the fictitious devil himself. So I can't help but wonder why I was at a dinner with a man we despised so?

Dr. Patterwood said that my friends meant a lot to me and that maybe the reason I fell back asleep was because my body couldn't handle what I remembered. But what I get from that is I did remember which means I can do it again. The initials I finally remember;

-R. D.

December 21st. 1986.

I know now. Dr. Patterwood told me in our last session. I now remember every miniscule detail. The length of every breath exhaled, the taste of my saliva after Ricahrd stabbed you, and the smell of tears wet and hot on my face after I stuck the knife into his body.

I miss you even more now that I remember you. You were my everything. I now remember all those moments we spent together. Those long conversations we had about the wonders of life and the beauty of pain. The nights looking at the stars and admiring how tiny we were in comparison to their burning grandeur. I also remember how much you loved me. How you told me with every step you took, with every laugh you released, and with every tear that fell. I was your universe and you were mine. That night tore me apart and I ultimately tore Richard apart in return.

Dr. Patterwood told me the severity of the situation. How brutally I killed and how intense the descent into that level of dissociation was. I lost myself, I did as Kant suggests. I lost my own sense of mortality. I forgot about who I was, where I was standing, I was above myself and the capacity which contained me. I was blessed by Gods and angels alike. I was soulless and cruel to the man who killed you.

What played out that night took much less struggle to uncover than one would predict. The only reason it took me so long was because my mind and body didn't want to accept the fact I lost you. Dr. Patterwood told me how much you meant to me, how special and important you were to who I was.

Once we got to the living room and Richard called you that foul word, it broke the only sane bone in my body and it broke all of you. You were angry, and now I know why you held my hand so tightly that night. Richard's threat was fatal enough to make you feel like something was truly going to tear us apart, and it did. He stabbed you once you yelled at him back. He grabbed the knife from his pocket and lodged it between your ribs all while staring into my eyes. He wanted to watch me watch you die. I did. I looked into your eyes as every moment of our love faded from your body.

I ripped the knife from your stomach and stuffed it into his left peck, right for his heart. With all the strength I could muster I dug it deep into him. I avenged you. I avenged the love of my life.

I'm not sure where these letters have gone but I do know that you lie happily in a grave besides your parents home. I know it was your dream to be reconnected with the land so I may have to excavate your body, cremate it and when I get arrested, I'll just say that I’ve gone mad. With the remembrance of every detail I also remember my name,

Love always, Richard.

P.S the doctors finally told me the big secret I was to know, they say I struggle with some sort of dissociative personality disorder. Bull shit I mean, we can't forget that I am an intellectual (genius).