Letter to My Killer

Dear Vincent Harris,

First let me say that I am dead. Shocker, huh getting a letter from a dead girl. Well guess what dear Vincent you are my murderer. Now you’re scared that someone knows your dirty little secret. About how you like to take girls to the woods. In fact Vincent, I know about all the girls you’ve taken to that small clearing.

But you don’t know my name. I knew you for 2 years but you never knew me. We were next door neighbors. I borrowed milk from you once. I knew you!I almost liked you! I was stupid I didn't see the way you looked at me with hungry eyes. All I saw was the beautiful shade of green they were. So when you asked me to help you out of course I said yes. But you never said my name.

Was it because I wasn’t good enough for you? Was it beneath you to learn the names of your victims? If I told you my name it wouldn’t mean anything, but I’m going to tell it to you anyways. I was Emily Miller, and I had a life. I had friends and family. I had a little sister that I loved and hated. I had a lead role in the school play. But none of that matters to you all you cared about was the size of my breast. I could see the disappointment on your face when you saw I had been stuffing my bra. But that didn’t stop you did it. It didn’t stop you from taking my most valuable belonging. My virginity.

But who cares about the girl as long as you got your sick pleasure. So maybe my boobs weren’t a size C, but they seemed to be good enough for you judging by how many times you grabbed at them. Judging by the bruises, the pain.

By now your small brain has gotten around to wondering why I am writing this letter or how I can even write it. Well you see unlike you I’m not a sinner, a murderer. I’m in heaven while you may rot in hell. Heaven’s a beautiful place that your perverted eyes will never see. At least I and all the others will get justice, maybe not in this life but without a doubt in the next. This letter isn’t one of forgiveness; forgiveness is something you will never find. Yes, God is forgiving, but not to your kind.

Not to the kind that search the streets to locate their next victim. People who lore in little girls with promises of candy, or games. Oh you give them candy, just not the kind they were expecting. You play your sick little games. Your games of pleasure that only you feel.

Did you find pleasure in leaving my broken body in the woods? How about when you came back a few hours later, to find I was still alive. Only to use me again and again, did it give you pleasure when I stopped moving? Did it Mr. Harris?

I hope you find pleasure in the fact that in a few hours the police will be knocking at your door. I guess some one (someone being me) gave them a tip to the location of my body.

P.S
Here’s a piece of advice don’t drop the soap.