Status: Please, be gentle.
Dear Tate
We're Monsters
Dear Tate,
I've broken, again. I imagine a piece of you is proud that another life has been taken because of you. Another soul to add to your collection. Even as I write, his blood is drying between my fingers. There is no hope for me, Tate. I see that now.
He was just a boy, maybe a year or two younger than myself. He had friends, family, people who will worry when he doesn't return home after his curfew. I should care about these things and yet, I simply can not. I enjoyed it, Tate. You know the worst part? He was trying to help me. I could see the sincerity in his eyes when he offered to drive me home and then the shock as I stabbed him in his throat.
Maybe you're right, maybe death is a mercy. It's certainly easier to believe than the truth—the actual truth; we're monsters, Tate. We kill mercilessly and there is no excuse other than the fact that we enjoy it.
This is what I have become—what you have made me. I will never forgive you.
I've broken, again. I imagine a piece of you is proud that another life has been taken because of you. Another soul to add to your collection. Even as I write, his blood is drying between my fingers. There is no hope for me, Tate. I see that now.
He was just a boy, maybe a year or two younger than myself. He had friends, family, people who will worry when he doesn't return home after his curfew. I should care about these things and yet, I simply can not. I enjoyed it, Tate. You know the worst part? He was trying to help me. I could see the sincerity in his eyes when he offered to drive me home and then the shock as I stabbed him in his throat.
Maybe you're right, maybe death is a mercy. It's certainly easier to believe than the truth—the actual truth; we're monsters, Tate. We kill mercilessly and there is no excuse other than the fact that we enjoy it.
This is what I have become—what you have made me. I will never forgive you.