Helsinki, December 1896
Little Fox,
When I was a girl, my mother used to sing me to sleep with a song about two naughty children who went off the trail and were eaten by monsters.
She did it to scare me into behaving, but the problem was always this: I never identified with the children.
I was well aware even then, thanks to the stares and hisses and hatred of those around me, that it was only the monsters I could claim kinship with.
I thought about that song today as I followed a young woman.
I didn’t mean to follow her. I didn’t even realize I was doing it until I went from the Helsinki Cathedral to the fish market and couldn’t say why I was there.
But it was her sunset curls. She reminded me of you, and so I continued, lurking like winter at autumn’s end.
She smiled and laughed and bargained and as I watched, I wondered. Did I take that from you? Was she real, or was she a ghost of who you could have been, had we never met over the dying body of a worthless old man?
Don’t fret too much, though. She was quite dull.
Or maybe I convinced myself she was dull as reassurance that you would feel the same.
That you wouldn’t wish to be her. I cannot imagine you in such a banal, ordinary existence.
Surely even without my interference, you were always going to be remarkable.
She ended the day at a home filled with light and laughter and children, which left me hollow and aimless. There was nothing for me there. She may have looked like you, but no one feels like you.
I imagined her dead, blood pooled like a halo around her head, soaking her hair in truest, deepest red.
Doubtless you see people the same, after all this.
No longer able to ignore the fragile membrane of life, so easily pushed through.
The thinnest film that transfers living into dead. Soul to meat.
Then I imagined you, broken, lifeless, and at last I felt something. It was like a gasp for air after nearly drowning.
Don’t die, Little Fox, as you wander farther and farther from the safe path. This monstrous existence is only bearable knowing you’re out there, caring so desperately.
Kind Regards,
Diavola
P.S. Poison this time. Not visually dramatic but so much suffering on their way out. I’m actually surprised you caught it—brava! Please stroll along the harbor and let the wind tangle your hair. Breathe deeply of that icy winter air and think of me so I can imagine you thinking of me.