I wonder if everyone's first thought is one of suicide.

Probably not.

Suicide is a tricky business, a business where only the men and women with a spine of steel can truly succeed. Many would disagree with me on this. The suicidal are weak, they would say. They cannot cope with life, while we can. Who are they to decide that they are unsuitable to live?

And to those people, I wish I could say, that every life is held in balance by choices. And sometimes those choices come from areas so foreign, so dark, that we can only bow our heads in shame that we cannot function. We grow angry that we cannot save ourselves from a hole that we were thrown in, and, like toddlers who have yet to learn the necessary words of communication, we sit down in a huff, cross our arms, and cry.

And the tears only help for so long. The relief that follows tears only lasts for a few minutes. The saltiness of the water tastes sour, then disgusting, then vile, and we don't want to taste it anymore. So we stop crying.

We try to scream for help in the hole, but no one hears us. Our throats hurt. So we forget how to talk.

Eventually the hole seems to grow shallower and shallower, and somehow we find ourselves with the rest of the world. No one asks any questions as to where we were, and they expect us to move about and don't give a damn about anyone. And we cannot. We are still confused as to how we got out of that hole. We might still be in it. We could be disoriented for all we know.

So we forget to live in our bewilderment.

And without life, we only have one hope-

Death.

My name is Sweeney Todd, and I am very confused. I am not sure if I still sit at the bottom of the hole or if I am fortunate enough to walk among the living. Either way, I wish I could know…

I live on Fleet Street in an apartment I wish I had burned down. My landlady, Mrs. Lovett, is rather nice. She chatters a bit, and I think she is trying to teach me to talk by example. But her words make my head overflow with knowledge and I drown. So I still remain silent. She has a son-figure named Toby. He is frightened of me. He thinks I hurt his lovely mother and he does not trust me. And he has every right to that fear, so I do not hate him or pity him in any way. I simply do not care.

I kill people.

Sorry to be so abrupt. But it's the honest truth. I am a barber by license and a killer at heart. I do not like to kill, but I do not hate it. It's something to do, like a chore that is more monotonous than aggravating. Mrs. Lovett needs meat for her pies; I need practice to kill an old enemy whose face I have only seen once or twice, perhaps three times, maybe.

Anyway, if you have found this note, then you know this already. Mrs. Lovett is dead (I didn't kill her, ask Doctor Jones, he lives by where Beedle Bailey used to live, he said she had a "chest cold", which might mean cancer in sympathetic terms). The old enemy is dead, for I have killed him. It still did not bring any satisfaction to me to see him die. Toby ran away, I do not know why or when.

And I am alone.

And very, very, very sad.

And I still cannot cry. Or talk.

But I have a rope and a chair to kick out, so I can go for a short drop and sudden stop.

I'm not sorry I killed. I'm not sorry I lied to everyone. I'm not sorry that no one will receive justice for my crimes.

I am sorry that I never kissed Mrs. Lovett, or talked to Toby about his family or properly buried my first wife.

Goodbye now.

I am leaving the hole.

Sincerely,

Sweeney Todd