Preview of my new story - Dear Suzanna

10th April

S,

I don't know what's happening but I'm scared. I'm really honestly fucking terrified like I haven't been since I was a kid.
They're outside. A lot of them. Outside the cottage.
I don't think they know I'm here. Not yet. But there's no way I can get out past them. And even if I was I don't know what I'd be getting out to.
I don't know what to do.

F



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Rabbit Warren Cottage
Suffolk


2nd April

Dear Suzanna,

This isn't a love letter.

You know, I don't remember the last time I actually wrote a letter. Sat down and wrote a proper honest to goodness put it in an envelope missive. I don't remember for sure but I think the last one probably was a love letter. To you.
Writing is a lost art I think. A nice pen on nice paper rather than notes scribbled hastily in biro in a cheap notepad during some pointless meeting or other. I have found it nice to actually take the time to write. Sit in the solitude of this lovely rural setting and actually think about what I want to say to you. Think about it and then take the time to form the letters carefully and properly on the page.

But this isn't a love letter. In fact it might be a suicide note.

After you did what you did I needed to think. Which is why I've come away here. You'll have seen where I am from the address at the top of the page. I picked up the phone to Charles as soon as I found your letter. I told him what you'd done, how it made me feel. We spoke for an hour or more, the longest I've spent talking to him in years I suspect.
At the end of the conversation he offered me this place for as I need it for. To get away from all the distractions of life. To think. To get my head together.
I've done the first two. You remember this place; you couldn't get much more away from "it" if you went to the Highlands. It's so peaceful here and that peace is wonderful. It's lonely too, but I suppose loneliness is something I need to get used to.
I've thought a lot too. Precious little else to do here as you'll remember; although I seem to recall we found plenty of things to do to entertain ourselves on the occasions we stayed here.
I've brought some books with me of course, but mhy mind won't let me settle on them for more than a minute before flitting back to you. Always back to you.
The lack of a TV or radio here always appealed to me before but now I long for their easy distraction.

Why did you do it, Suzanna? I still can't understand. I know you tried to explain in your letter but I'm afraid, my dear, that you failed. Why throw away everything we had? Why hurt me so much that I want to die?
The oven here is electric so that's no good. There are aspirin in the bathroom cupboard but probably not enough. Can you even overdose on aspirin?
I have a razor, but I'd have to tear it to bits to get at the blades and I'm sure they'd be tiny, too tiny to hold probably. That leaves the breadknife, which just seems....messy.
I suppose I should have planned this trip better.

Oh Christ, I still love you so much.

Frank