Dear my darling Edward, if you are alive.
This is the last thing I will ever write. The world is a terrible place now, and I fear for my life. I don't know where you are or if you will ever find this letter, but the last thing a mother could wish for is for her son to be tormented by these... things. Most of my friends and loved ones are dead, and I made a promise to myself I will not fall victim to these unholy creatures.
Oh Edward, I hope you're far from Germany right now.
The reason I'm writing this letter to you is because I feel I owe you an explanation and an apology. I'm so sorry I left you, Edward, but I felt I had no choice.
It all started when you were just a small child. Your son is deaf, Mrs. Richtofen, the doctor told me. Over and over again. Your son is deaf. That's the obvious conclusion any doctor would come to when your three-year-old son's never uttered a word, and everything you say to him goes over his head, when he doesn't even look at you when you speak, when he pays you no attention. He'll snap out of it, your father would say. Oh, I look back at your father with such contempt. Of the rare occasions I managed to get you to look me in the eye in those early days, I tried to teach you sign language, only to no avail. I despaired, the prospect of never being able to effectively communicate with the son I'd wanted so badly had me stricken with grief.
When you uttered your first words, I thought it would be a joyous moment of my life. You were five years old, the words that came out of your mouth made my heart sink to my stomach.
The worm wriggles with pain when you slice it in half, Mother.
You held up the worm in two pieces, only it had died. In that moment I still remember so crystal clear, your eyes glowed like green orbs at the maimed insect corpse. At that moment I felt scared of my own child, and I adopted your father's mantra. It's just a phase; he'll grow out of it. I ran it over in my head, over and over. Like your favourite record, stuck on the player after your father scratched it up with a kitchen knife when you were caught drawing on your bedroom wall. Your behaviours depicted something strange in those days, Edward, and I could never quite pinpoint it. You certainly were a very intelligent child, the rare occasions more than one word escaped your small lips, and the things you'd say far outshined the ability of any other child your age. You were so full of ambition, and I knew one day you would grow up to be an important man like your father.
The heart connects to the arteries, mother, and this is how the blood is pumped around the body. I wish to be a doctor one day.
I never doubted your abilities for a second – the last thing I heard about you is that you were training to become a doctor, through an old friend. I am so proud of you my heart could burst with love and affection, for achieving what you have despite the efforts of your monstrous father to crush your dreams. It wasn't long after these strange occurrences with animals, when you started to become inquisitive, and you became so aware of everything around you that your father started to drink.
Even the days I have spent on the run from these foul, undead-looking monsters causing death and destruction, wreaking havoc, are nothing compared to those dark years. It started out light, a few cans of beer every evening after work turned into a few cans of stronger beer, to half a bottle of whiskey, to a whole bottle of whiskey, to two bottles... you get the idea. The very roots of his being uplifted, replaced by a monster rearing its ugly head and roaring at the top of its voice. The first time he locked you in the closet, white anger boiled up inside me and I retaliated. I slapped him across the face, he beat me to the floor with huge blows and kicks to my whole body, and all the while you were banging on the closet door screaming out for help. When my only child was crying out in a state of hysteria and terror in the pitch-black space just big enough to stand in, all I could do was lie on the floor and cry and try to reassure you, staring on in despair at my blood-glistened body as my consciousness drifted away, before waking up several hours later.
And I'd tell you relentlessly til my throat was hoarse that there was no way I could get you out, but you still blamed me for his actions. You looked up at him with nothing but admiration and warmth; you treated me like I was some sort of disease. Even though after he stopped letting you eat, you knew it was me who would sneak you food when I could. I don't blame you Edward, I'm not writing this to make you feel bad. We all, at some point in our lives fall victim to the Stockholm Syndrome.
With my only child hating every fibre in my being, and seeing you stand by nonchalantly while you let yourself become the victim of your father's strange experiments, everything became too much. The breaking point came when you were locked in the closet for a three-day period, and that monster of a man beat me within an inch of my life. To the emergency room it was a fall down the stairs, a dog bite, an accident with the kitchen knife. To me, it was like crashing into the rest of the iceberg after only seeing the tip above the surface of the sea.
It broke my heart to leave you Edward, and I pleaded you to come with me, to no avail. You kicked and screamed and wanted to stay, it broke my heart. That day that I escaped his clutches, my poor child was so abused he was barely recognisable. Your once full and rosy cheeks were gaunt with a ghostly tinge, your ribs protruded through your clothes, you were sick all the time. You could have been mistaken for a corpse, even your sparkling, magnificent green eyes once so full of innocence now a dull, lacklustre, piercing glare.
I considered suicide for many years after that, leaving my only child and the only man I've ever loved behind, as well as my entire life, but that would have given him the satisfaction. I'm so sorry I never returned, Edward, but I always made sure I knew how you were doing and what you were up to, through mutual friends of your father and myself. Not a day has gone by I don't miss you or think of you, wonder what you're doing, where you are, what you look like now. If you ever find this letter, please know that I am so sorry for what I did to you. The words on this paper are as useful as if it was blank I know, but please know I am consumed with regret and heartbreak about my decision to leave you.
Edward, I don't have long. I think they're coming. I can hear them screeching in the streets, marching and growling. I've seen them, they are creatures of the most horrific nature. Their eyes glow something unnatural with a bright yellow, wearing the uniform of the Fuhrer. They are a force truly evil, yet I suspect they are not to blame. I've seen them clutching their heads, screaming out in pain and anguish; I cannot help but feel there is a bigger force at work. It seems fitting to think that only your father could be behind something so sinister. But I know you're out there somewhere, Edward, making these people better. My child, now a glorious doctor, preserver of life – defendant of the weak. I know you'll do me proud, Edward.
The body you will find on the bed is indeed mine, take my hand gun and defend yourself from the monstrous hordes that are tormenting us so. And please Edward, if you find this letter and my body, bury me at the cemetery down the little winding lane just a few minutes walk from our old family home so I can be at rest.
I love you, son.