Dear you,
No, hell with that—"dear" is the wrong word, totally wrong. You're not a "dear" anything. You're the sickness, you're what's wrong. And you don't start a letter with "Dear sickness"—well, I don't. You might, actually, you're just twisted and sick enough to do call an illness "dear," because after all, they're your brothers, aren't they? The hurts and the maladies, you see them all at family reunions, and if anyone or anything is dear to you, it'd be them. If you gave a rat's ass about anything, I bet it would be kin—but you don't. I know you don't. I know.
How do I know? Oh, I bet you're all amused right now, pressing your stupid thin little lips together in a stupid thin little smirk. Well, knock it off, because even if we've never had a proper conversation, I can tell—and don't be so snooty as to ask me how. I'm not a bleeding idiot, that's how, and though you'll probably never properly realize it, you're not so good at your job as you think you are. Sure, you sneak around, and you do your research, and you hide away with all your precious little gadgets, but that's all legwork; I'm using my eyes, observing, watching. You'd be surprised at what I see, what I remember—for example, that little mask you wear? Useless. It clings so precisely to your skin, bet you could take it off and I'd still recognize you right away in a crowd. You can't hide from me. You can't stop me from seeing it.
You probably don't even think there's anything to see, you superior wanker. But there's plenty—I've caught all those coy little glances, the way you move and hold yourself, the way you breathe when you've got me pinned—not a thing escapes me, especially not you. You couldn't ever escape me—that is, if I wanted to catch you. But I don't. I don't want to catch you, I don't want you—I hate you. I hate seeing you look at me like that, the way you think you can get away with it, that you think I'm too dull to even notice when it's so painfully obvious, the way your sickness is infectious, the way you look at me like I'm a piece of meat to be devoured and then forgotten—because, remember, I know how you are, how your capacity to care starts at zero and only goes lower. That thing your mouth does when you ogle me, there's no affection there, although I must admit when it runs simultaneously with the other thing you do with your eyes—
But that's not worth a tic, is it? You could be lying with your eyes to get me closer to the truth you grip between your teeth—and I know that's the truth, because as a lie, as a secret, I would do you no good. If you look at me with longing, it's out of some pathetic, sick desire, some physical urge, the need to jump my bones and then forget the next morning—but you've got your goddamn work cut out for you. I must admit, though, if you can get someone like me—straight-laced, professional, and a sucker for a good pair of tits—to want to get intimate, well, guess you're better at your job than I give you credit for. But I don't want intimacy; I'm a full grown fucking man and I don't want to be cuddled and sweet-talked by some pansy-ass traitorous spook—yeah, that's right, traitorous. I don't trust you, I can't, I couldn't trust you even if I wanted to.
And I'll admit that I do. Want to trust you, I mean. I hate it, I don't want to want to trust you, but I do. There, I said it. So what? Not like I can, and—fuck, I'm not going to. God, I hate you. You make me sick. Really. I've told you about the illness, how it's your family and pride and self and all you could be faithful to, but what I forgot to mention was how goddamn contagious it is. I know it's an outright malady, so don't try to convince me that it isn't, that you're not—I'm around my second score of years and my mind has always made sense to me, no matter what happened or who I met or what I did. But now everything's a mess, a jumble, and I have wild fantasies that don't make sense, and I'm haunted in my dreams; I even get a fever whenever you get too close. If I get any sicker I'm afraid I'd let you grasp and use and fuck and leave me, and I'm almost sick enough to want you to. Almost.
But I don't think I'll ever be sick enough to trust you. That's the problem with your little game—if you did really want me, that'd be betraying everything you're supposed to be, and to be faithful to your duties, you'd have to betray me. No matter which way you go, if we ever got close, it would give me a reason not to get close to you. If we were on the same side, maybe it'd be different, but you're a betrayer either way and to get involved with you would be stupid—and like I said, I'm not stupid.
I'm not stupid, so I'll stay away from you. I'm not stupid, so I won't send this letter. I'm not stupid, so I won't tell you how I feel. I won't give you the chance to slither in and make me ill. If I think that you're alluring, fascinating, desirable—that's just the symptoms talking, and I have to ignore them if I ever want to recover. And I do—I have to remind myself of that sometimes, but I want to be over this. I want to be healthy again, and I know you can't do that for me. No matter how desperately I wish that you could.
Love—No, Anything But That,
The Sniper.