To My Latest Victim,
Listen, I’m sorry I did this to you. Honestly though, I didn’t ask for you to come into my life. It just happened. And I promised myself that it would be different this time. At first, it was. But then one day I looked at you and realized I was slowly torturing you to death.
Remorse set in.
I tried to make it up to you, I really did. It was too late. Deep down, I already knew I’d killed you, but I hoped for a miracle. Maybe this time I would wake up to see that you’d perked up overnight. When you were even more ragged than the day before, I started digging your grave.
Please understand that your death wasn’t personal. I’ve murdered at least a dozen before you. Didn’t I warn you that I was serial killer when you came into my house for the first time?
Your unmarked grave sits in the midst of many just like you. And for that, be grateful. Some end up in a plastic bag, thrown away like common garbage. I have more respect for you than that.
I can’t explain why I’m a killer. It’s definitely not hereditary. My grandmother was great with your kind. She played music for them and doted on them as if they were her own children. Sadly, it’s all I can do to remember you exist… until its too late. So now I’ll bury you and send you back to the ground from which you came.
Maybe the next time someone gives me a house plant, I’ll actually remember to water it.
Words from Emma Woods 