Dear Tate

Dear Tate,

This will be the last letter you receive from me.

I have found a place to stay, someone who understands the abomination that you have created. He has promised to help me control it, to satiate the hunger without fear of being caught. You wanna know the irony in the whole matter? He's already dead.

I have become Death. It surrounds me, fuels me and one day it will consume me, though it will not stop me. He tells me I have a gift. I will do great things—terrible, but great. I will not try to pretend to be someone I am not.

I got away too late. Your darkness has seeped into my very marrow.

I don't need you anymore, Tate. I am thankful.

Goodbye Tate,
...