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You find yourself standing in the hallway of an apartment. It is not an exceptionally spacious or inviting living area by any means, given the evident lack of visible decoration on the walls, floor, and practically everywhere. Still, it is clean - messy, but clean. In every possible corner shoved, there is a suitcase, a sealed bag with unknown supplies, doodahs, or random items strewn about. Nothing that stands out, not really, except… on an empty table, a single document is left out, drawing attention from an otherwise sea of objects haphazardly thrown in. The curious-looking paper you notice upon approaching is worn and beaten down by time and usage; someone has read this one too many times. Obsessively so. It is a letter, so old and seen so much use that it would easily crumble if held wrongly in the uncaring hand. Therefore, you decide to let it remain as is and read it instead. Sitting down and lighting a hanging lamp above your head helps you better see in an otherwise dark room.

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13th July 1919

          Dearest Timothy, 

You know better than most the truth of how pitiful an orator I genuinely am, fumbling and stumbling in my speaking ever so often in your presence.

So I hope this letter agrees with you more than my spoken incoherent ramblings of affection ever could.

Because I want you to understand what I’ve done for this letter to finally be in your hands, the manner of creature I’ve become.

You see, I’ve now shed the mantle of hero you once put on me, a designation more than ever before undeserving of being laid upon my shoulders. Because I am no longer, if ever I was, a hero.

These days, I am swimming, lost in a sea of horrors. I doubt; I fear; I think strange thoughts, things I dare not confess even to mine own soul. A hero would not think and act this way; they would see to the greater good above all else.

This, I no longer do.  You, Timothy, the blinding light of my lights, are the greater good for me. The anchor to my past, to that dream we had, remember? Of finding a plot of land somewhere far removed from everything and everyone.

My only hope is that when we meet again, you will not look upon my face with the same revile, hatred and fear I did upon first seeing my kind. But I dread that you will because of the nature of the evil fiend that I serve, who presses from me the vilest paroxysms - forcing my hand to slaughter.  And you know as well as I that nothing blackens the soul more than killing. I fear what will remain of the man handing you this note. But I shan't give up hope. I cannot.

And while he can have my body to do his wicked work, my soul and heart both have, and will always, irrevocably belong to you.  Please, forgive me for the monster I’ve become, the devil I’ve served. And for that lost moment in time when I hesitated in my speaking. I did not say it then, but I will say it now, in writing, in screaming, in song; I love you, Timothy.

Always have and always will.

                  Yours eternally, Robin