Dear Steve,
Or I guess your name is Jude. Whatever.
My days used to revolve around you. That's when the nights were long. But I'd call you up on a morning and we'd talk and you'd say, 'Can I see you tonight?' And I'd beam light from inside my heart for the whole day because you, this gorgeous, amazing, funny, intelligent man wanted to see me, a woman of no importance. A hairdresser. I prayed that it wouldn't come to nothing, and my mum accused me of going crazy but I swore I was fine.
You painted me this blue, blue sky but now it's raining. I was just a pawn in your chess game, wasn't I? Someone you used to while away the hours that you weren't plotting your revenge on the Hadley family.
But then you started to talk to me. I'm dead, you murdered me, but you talk to me like you still love me. And for a while I guided you through life, because I thought maybe you didn't mean to kill me. Naivety, they call it. And I thought about it properly, and wondered which version of you I'd see from this non-place today. The nice Steve, the real you, or the bitter, twisted Jude who wants to smash everything in front of him, Nought or Cross? I stopped listening to you, Steve, and you noticed, so this letter is to let you know why.
Maybe it was me and that blind optimism I had – still have – that's to blame for my death. Or maybe it was your sick need to befriend and love people then take their life support away. You've added my name to that incredibly long list of traitors who don't understand your plight.
Steve, I see what you are now that I'm gone. Don't you think I was a little too young inside to be messed with? Don't you think Callie Rose, at sixteen, was too young to be played by your dark, twisted game? We should have known.
Do you want to know what it's like to be murdered, Steve? I'll tell you anyway. Your soul is ripped out of your body with a terrible scream that echoes around the world and haunts loved ones. Psychic residue. People are meant to just slip away, into a deep sleep and when they wake up they have passed into the wide, wide Heaven that I can't reach until I let go of Earth. Of you. And then there are the man-slaughtered, or those with illnesses, who just fall out of their bodies in a daze. Confused and hopeless, they just pass on without difficulty. But the murdered… we stay here, nowhere, and wait, either for justice or for forgiveness.
You're about to die, Steve. You're the expert at keeping lines blurry, aren't you? But Jasmine just played your game a whole lot better. I never impressed you, did I? Callie and Sephy's eyes are tired and lifeless because you burned them out. But I've got your matches now. The fire didn't quite catch me, you know.
Hold on, you're laughing… Why are you laughing?
Cara. Cara. Take my hand and lead me down to…
'Hell,' you say, blinking. It's time for me to go. I'll seal this envelope and you'll know what I think of you. Callum's written one for you too. He's not very happy that you tried to kill his little girl. He wishes he's left you a letter earlier. I'm going to pass on…
I'll see you soon. Come and find me.
I'm fading… Don't look now, Jude. I'm shining like fireworks on Bonfire Night over your sad, empty town of a heart.
I love you.
Cara.