Dear M,
Do you remember the first time we met? 15 years ago. I only remember your eyes, your empty, inhumane eyes. People told me your eyes reveal murderous intent, how you were willing to attack anyone and anything. No matter how gruesomely they described you, I never believed them. You see, when we first made eye contact, I didn’t see a cruel killer . . . I saw a loss of hope. I saw how you had given up. People only perceive your actions: how you push everyone away, how you easily break into anger, how you are willing to fight at the drop of a hat. No wonder they painted you as a murderer. But that’s not true, is it? When I was on a case, I tried to save a boy from his own mother, where I rushed into their house after the boy finally had the heart to call us. But when I saw her eyes, I froze in fear. A true murderer’s eyes: cold, heartless, desiring to kill. I could see it all. She broke a glass vase and was about to stab both of us, but you showed up. Those rumors claiming you were a murderer, how could they be true? I was wrong the first time I saw you. Your eyes, they weren’t empty; they were filled with pain.
You knocked the mother unconscious, and with those glistening eyes, you apologized to me. Bowed down almost deeper than 90 degrees. Why did you do that? Why would you apologize for someone’s else's crimes? Thanks to you, the boy was saved and the mother was thrown in prison.
When you exited that dark red house, reporters swarmed you. They were lured by the red and blue lights. Since you weren’t willing to answer any questions, they fabricated lies to ruin your image. I would see titles like “The Mass Murderer M,” and that angered me because no matter how much I defended you, no one believed me. I hated that, but what I hated even more is how unbothered you were by it.
I approached you multiple times, asking you to allow me to interview you, so I could clear your name. You turned me away everytime, but you never got annoyed at me like people said you would; you treated me with respect. I felt even more helpless. I would rather you were rude to me. I wanted you to take it out on me. But you never did. Everytime you turned me down, your demeanor got more and more distant. You tried to build a wall between us because I wanted to help you, but I could tell you wanted me to help you. You could try to fake your detached self with your actions and your words, but your eyes never lied.
I got another case. This woman was abusing her husband, and no one trusted him because he looked much stronger. All my peers told me that I was being tricked, but every time someone told me I was being deceived, I thought of you. You tried to act like how those rumors painted you, but I knew. I just knew. The woman had a gun when I bursted through their door. She was pointing it at her husband, but then she smiled and shifted her gun towards me. Her eyes were different than the mother’s though, she was able to make them seem innocent. I could still see her true intentions, but her ability to manipulate her eyes scared me. Was I wrong about you?
I pulled out my gun. Intimidated, she pointed her gun back at her husband, yelling at the top of her lungs that she would shoot. That feeling of helplessness rang in my head, not from the woman but from my inability to decipher right from wrong. In the end, I pretended to lower my guard, putting my gun back into my pocket. She in turn lowered her guard, redirecting her attention to her husband. I took that opportunity to swiftly take out my taser gun and shoot. I was never scared of people like her who believed everyone was under them. She fully believed she could force me to watch her kill her husband. As disgusting as that is, it made it easy for me to stop her. I handcuffed her and called for backup, but still no one believed that she was an attempted murderer. They asked me if I caught the wrong person since the husband seemed more like a criminal. She was bawling her eyes out, claiming she was falsely accused. Frustrated, I realized I had no evidence. It was her word against mine. Then, you crawled out of a bush.
You told the police I was right and showed picture evidence. You were there the whole time. With the picture evidence, the police had no choice but to admit that she was a criminal. While driving away, she vowed to kill me when she was released. I didn’t care as that was a common phrase I heard, but it made you flinch. Again, you bowed at me, even deeper than last time. The same pain in your eyes appeared as you started striding away. At this point, I didn’t care about saving your reputation anymore. I just wanted to know more about you.
“Would you want to join me for lunch?”
That was my first mistake. Those words escaped my lips before I could think. You paused. My heart was pounding faster than it was when the wife pointed her gun at me. You turned around.
Smiling, you replied, “Of course.”
That was the first smile I ever saw from you. It suited you, you know? Even though it is the saddest smile I have ever seen, it suited you.
Upon meeting you at a cafe, we sat in silence for the longest time, but that didn’t seem to bother you. Your eyes were still trembling in pain; I asked the most obvious question.
“How do you know where every criminal is?”
You blinked. Your answer: you could sense it. What does that even mean? The more I found out about you, the more confused I got. But I liked it. I wanted to know you better. Little did I know how close we would get.
Everyday we would hang out more and more, and I saw that wall you built between us slowly fell apart. I looked forward to seeing you even if I didn’t know much about you. That silence we had when we hung out never felt awkward; it felt warm.
The times you did speak, you told me vague stories of your past. Like about that time you were too late to save 15 children from a fire. And that time you had no choice but to shoot your best friend, or that time when a murderer forced you to watch the death of your own mother. You told me you were a monster. Was that why you showed up at those cases I had? I believed you though. No matter what, my intuition told me you're a good person.
I went to the file storage, when my boss asked me to search for this alleged serial killer from three hundred years ago. She told me for some reason there had been a report of him. When I picked up the image, I fell back. Xandiel was you . . . but how? His name was Xandiel Hartz, and was accused of mass murdering 15 children since he was the only one on the scene of the crime. He could have been a lookalike, but I could recognize those eyes everywhere. Those pained eyes. Xandiel Hartz, he wasn’t dead.
I kept searching. Eli Nomad, fought in WWII, died from inhaling gas. Yor Hagar, a small farmer, forced to fight in WWI, died from a gunshot. Ry Miller, Bri Loren, Taylor Zanker, the list went on. How many lives have you lived? I suddenly understood why you wanted to be seen as a murderer, why you didn’t want anyone close to you. It was because you always outlived them. I didn’t realize how hurt those eyes truly were.
At last, our feelings are mutual. I was ecstatic seeing you happy, but I had a secret. You didn’t take long to find it after I randomly blacked out next to you. It’s kind of funny when you think about it. I have a terminal illness while you are sentenced to an ever-lasting life. I guess opposites really do attract.
I’m writing this letter with you sleeping at my hospital bedside because I don’t think I can face you before I leave. But I need to tell you something. Actually, I have many things to tell you, but I think that will have to wait for another lifetime. M, I’m sorry. I truly am sorry that the first person you opened your heart to after a long time was me, but I don’t want it to stop with me. Go talk to my family after I leave. Break down your armor and make friends. Please don’t be alone anymore.
I don’t want to leave you, but the choice is not up to me. Even though I am only a short part of your life, you are my forever.
Your friend,
S
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