Dear John (a pseudonym granted not for your benefit but as a mere formality you scarcely deserve),
Here I am, writing this letter, each word that comes out in my head pulsates with echoes of the past that refuse to be silenced. And this 'past', I thought was buried deep — because I never wanted to relive it ever again — until I realised that burying it didn't erase it. Instead, it consumed me, where it should've consumed you.
For years, I've grappled with the weight of your betrayal— leaving me with nothing else other than unbearable rage, sorrow, and a piercing clarity that comes from confronting the demons you left in your wake. What you did to me — this betrayal you sketched into my existence wasn't just an act of violence against my body; to me, it was the annihilation of the innocence that was supposed to be my world.
And beneath this rage is sorrow, a mourning for the person I once was. I lost me. I lost the life I was meant to live.
There were countless moments when I stared at my reflections, questioning my strength, my memories, and myself — wrestling with a self-disgust that threatened to consume me.
"Am I victimising myself, or was it you that sculpted these shackles of self-blame?"
"Did I do anything to suggest I wanted him?"
"Did I ever misinterpret his touch?"
I looked at the mirror and suddenly every inch of me became a constant reminder of the price paid for trusting a soul as fractured as yours.
How do you sleep at night, John? Is there a flicker of remorse in the depths of your being, or does the darkness of your deeds cast too long a shadow over your heart? When the world quiets down, and you're left alone with your thoughts, is there a dark whisper that stirs you? Or has the magnitude of your deeds invoked ever greater darkness that it kills every glimmer of your conscience?
I sometimes wonder if, in those solitary moments before sleep claims you, my despair manages to breach your sense of indifference. Does the memory of the pain you inflicted upon me ever pierce through your self-justifications, revealing a glimpse of the human you once were, buried under your fucked-up choices in life? The thought haunts me, not because I crave your torment, but because I yearn for a sign that somewhere, beneath the layers of betrayal and cruelty, there remains a flicker of humanity capable of recognising the depth of the wreckage in yourself. It's a question of moral reckoning, John, a test of your capacity to confront your darkest reflections and, somehow, be transformed by the gravity of your understanding.
But I'm not here to educate you on this. You don't deserve it. It's not my job.
This letter, while addressed to you, is not for your redemption, nor is it a plea for your understanding. It's a release, a vital step for me to reclaim the pieces of my soul that were shattered by your violation — a release, severing of the chains of victimhood that you've wrapped around me.
Today, I am no longer defined by the pain you inflicted.
Today, I am reclaiming my voice through these words.
Today, I am taking back the power you once sought to steal, affirming to myself and the world that I am, and always will be, so much more than the sum of my scars that you made.
I hope, for your sake, that the gravity of your actions weighs heavily upon you, not as a curse, but as a call for introspection.
I also hope, for your sake, you will find yourself having remorse.
Not for my good. For yours. For remorse stems from conscience, and conscience from grace—a grace I hope finds its way to you.
Fuck you, John. But know this: I'll pray for you.
Comentarios