This was a writing exercise we did in class recently - we had to write a letter of apology after having done something terrible.
Dear Carol
They said I should write you a letter. Does anyone even do that anymore? I did look for a card to put it in, but Hallmark doesn’t seem to have come up with anything appropriate for the occasion.
You know, if anyone had asked me six months ago if I considered myself capable of murder, I would have said no. I’m a vegetarian, for heaven’s sake. I can’t even stand to squash those whitetail spiders, even though they can give you a nasty bite. But it’s funny what can happen when you’re pushed past your limit. Funny peculiar, I mean. I wouldn’t want you to think I thought what I did to Roger was in any way humorous.
Did you know that the Geneva Convention specifically prohibits torturing enemy combatants by depriving them of sleep? And yet, people in the suburbs seem to think it is perfectly acceptable to do this to their neighbours. I did speak to you about it. Remember? And you promised you’d keep him quiet, but whatever it is you did, it didn’t work. If you even tried, that is. I heard you boasting to Miriam next door about what a free spirit he was, and how you couldn’t bear to keep him cooped up, it just wasn’t natural. And then the next night he was right back at it, waking me up at 2 am, and 3 am, and 4 am, sounding the hours like some damn medieval watchman.
The trouble is, once you hear a disruptive noise in the night, even when it stops you’ll lie awake for hours waiting for the next one. I tried ear plugs, but then I worried there might be a burglar in the house and I wouldn’t hear him, and that just made me even more awake. The sleeping pills just me the appalling nightmares. I was a nervous wreck, Carol! And you gave me a box of chamomile tea! Well, you know what I did with those teabags, Carol.
I do understand now that using a steak knife was inappropriate and inhumane. You’re supposed to use an axe, apparently. I should have looked it up on the Internet first. I am terribly sorry about the mess, but he wouldn’t stop struggling. He made such an odd sort of noise after the first cut, like a sort of gargling scream. Who would have thought that little chicken would have so much blood in him? It won’t wash off, you know. I’ve tried every single brand of soap I could find at the supermarket, but there’s that one spot that just won’t scrub off.
Silly me, I do ramble on, don’t I? I’d better finish this up so I can get it in the mail. I’ve got a group therapy session in half an hour. You wouldn’t believe some of the people they have in here, Carol. Why, some of them are downright crazy! You should come and visit.
Warmest regards,
Margaret
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