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.
Rabbit Warren Cottage
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.
Rabbit Warren Cottage
I wrote you a letter yesterday. A long one. And then burned it last night on the fire.
I'm staying at Charles's cottage. A bit of space and time to think. Yesterday I felt very sad. Today I feel angry. Angry at you, Suzanna, for what you did to me. I suspect that this won't be the last letter I write. That tomorrow I'll do something and I'll write another letter and burn this one just like I did yesterday's. I hope so because right now I really fucking hate you and I don't like feeling like that.
Rabbit Warren Cottage
This is letter number three. Or rather my third attempt at writing to you as you won't see the other two.
I'm staying at Charles's cottage in Suffolk. Thinking. About you. About us.
He called me last night on my mobile but I'm afraid I didn't hear it. I'd been drinking. I'll admit that I've been doing rather a lot of that. Drinking and thinking.
I've got a glass in front of me right now in fact. Not the hard stuff. Just a rather nice Rioja I'm having with lunch. I'm well provisioned; plentiful supplies of both food and booze. You'd be proud of me. I shan't have to drive to the village to restock for a few days yet.
That's good because I don't think I could face anybody. Even strangers. I'm sure my pain is tattooed across my face for anyone to see.
Lats night I had been on the hard stuff and I was dozing when Charles rang. I woke up in the early hours, laying on the sofa with a whisky bottle next to me. My neck was fearfully stiff from the awkward position I'd ended up in. You remember what the sofas are like there: too short to really stretch out on. I think the pain may be what woke me up. I could have done with you here, you and your magic hands.
The phone was blining at me, that bright red light it has that annoyed you so much. Charles had left a message. A strange message. He asked me if I new what had happened. And then if I was alright. There was a terrible noise in the background, growing louder as he spoke. A fearful banging like someone kicking a metal door. And then there was silence, ten seconds of it at least. And then he hung up. I'll admit I was a bit concerned about him when I heard it. He's been in a few scrapes in the past as I'm sure you'll remember. I rang him back but he didn't answer. The phone just rang and rang and then went to voicemail. I left him a message, told him I was fine, asked him if he was.
That was last night and he hasn't called back yet, although knowing Charles he's probably sleeping off a hangover. I called Katie as well to see if she knew if he was okay. No answer from her either, but it was after nine so I expect she was at work. I did wonder if she'd seen it was me calling and deliberately ignored it. I haven't spoken to her since I read your letter but Charles will have. I expect the poor girl is very upset by it all. May feel awkward talking to me under the circumstances.
It's a beautiful day here today. Clear and crisp and quiet. I walked in the garden this morning, enjoying the fresh air and the quiet. You know I'm sure when we came here before you could hear a hint of traffic noise in the garden from the B road that runs through the village. Not a hint of it today though. Not so much as a peep. It really is utterly tranquil here. I suppose the wind must just have been blowing in the right direction, carrying the noise away.
I think I feel a bit better now. Not all the way there by a long chalk but better.
I still love you though, which is a bit of a kicker.
I don't really know why I'm writing these letters as I know you'll never read them. Talking to you this way is helpful somehow though. Maybe if I went to see a counsellor (Charles suggested that you know, some fellow he knows), they'd recommend a similar thing. They call psychiatry the "talking cure" don't they? I think these letters, for me, have become the "writing cure".
Have I got over what you did? Of course not. It's all too fresh still. Too raw. I find myself posing the question many times each day though. Checking my temperature. I picture myself like a short-sighted man putting his hand out of the window to see if it's still raining.
It is. But not so hard.
I've decided to go into the village today. Partly because there are a few bits and bobs I need. Mostly because I feel, after these few days of solitude, the need for some human contact again. Just a friendly smile and a how do you do with a shopkeeper. Maybe a chat about the weather and the news with the landlord of the Crown. Not that I have any idea what's been going on in the world since I got here. Probably time to catch up!
Charles never did call me back. If he had I might not need to go out at all. I have tried him again, a couple of time, but no answer.
I wrote yesterday that this felt like therapy. Today I'm worrying that in fact it's the written equivalent of talking to yourself. Human contact is definitely needed.
I will report back. To myself!
6th April - later
So much for that idea! The village was deserted, or seemed to be at least, like something from the bloody Twilight Zone.
I'll admit I've lost track of the days a bit but my watch is telling me it's the sixth and I'm pretty sure that means it's a Wednesday. I know the village isn't exactly a bustling metropolis but I didn't expect it to be completely dead.
I used the bike in the shed to get there. I've done no exercise since I got here and I thought the ride would do me good. Plus if the couple of pints I was going to have at the Crown turned into more than that I figured I could always leave it locked up somewhere and stagger back to the cottage.
When I got to the pub the door was shut and there was no sign of life. Living in the city you forget that pubs out here aren't open all day. I carried on into the village proper and everything was closed there too. The newsagents, the greengrocers, the village store. All locked up tight with the closed signs pointing outwards. It may have been half-day closing I suppose.
The strangest part was that the whole time I didn't see a single living soul.
Actually that wasn't the strangest part, or not the most distrurbing anyway.
I checked the church too. The main door was also locked up tight so I walked round to see if the side entrance was open. It wasn't of course but when I turned back from it I saw that two of the graves were disturbed. Desecrated I suppose you'd say. Judging by the headstones they had only been recently filled, not like most of the dusty tombs there. The earth was strewn all around them along with the remains of the bouquets and wreaths that had laid upin the graves.
I didn't look any more closely than that, to be honest the whole thing creeped me out a little. I did wonder if perhaps I should report it but the damage didn't look that fresh so I'm sure someone else must have already. Besides, even with my desire for a bit of human contact I have no appetite for talking to the police.
I'm back at the cottage now, without my provisions.
Fortunately, of all of the things I'm running short of whiskey isn't one of them. Consequently I'm now going to get very drunk.
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