In Absentia

If we all haven't guessed by now, I do not own Cruel Intentions. It belongs to Roger Kumble. I own Sebastian though. In my dreams. Hahaha

I.


Is there really no way to reach me?
Am I already gone?

-The Fray

---

The following letter arrived on September 17th at the Methadone Clinic.

Dear Kathryn,

The games we play... Didn't I once tell you that with our incessant need to further the boundaries of our perverse mindfucking, a day would come wherein we would eventually become the victims of our own game? Of course you probably wouldn't remember it, but I do. I remember that day well because it is one of the many memories I have of us untainted by that moronic emotion called love. I'll say it again. Love. Disgusting, filthy and despicable. A loathsome word which only served as the final axe that severed our ties. I would be lying if I said I didn't take the utmost pleasure of watching you crumble down that day, specifically when Cecile (that amusingly innocent bitch who had followed me around like a puppy dog when I served as her 'tutor') handed you that journal, but I did. You might not have seen me, but I had been inside a limousine hidden from the possible glare of those pretty green eyes of yours. You were warned countless times by the people you've crossed and destroyed: You'll have your day, bitch. I marked their words for them with the slight tilting of my head at your indifferent expression. You weren't scared. That's one thing I'm proud of you for, sis. You were never scared of anything. Always, always so graceful under the harshest of storms. Of course, it would probably be because you were the cause of such discord in the first place.

Eye for an eye, wouldn't you agree? You almost took my life so I suppose it only makes sense that I took everything you stood for: Your reputation. Your shallow, meaningless existence. Now everybody saw the neverending darkness hidden inside that little hot body of yours. Mmm. Creamy skin... Nice smooth thighs... That mouth... Those eyes... God, you were so beautiful. You still are, no matter what the fuck they're doing to you inside that nuthouse Tiffany called a rehab center. How is it, by the way? Sorry I only wrote to you now, but the therapy's killing me. I would have called, but they don't even acknowledge the fact that you're a patient there. By the way, your kind hearted mother's explanation was that you had some sort of breakdown from the hardwork you've been doing, she even managed to make everybody else think that you were the victim and that the drug use was only because of 'peer pressure'. According to her, you're with your aunt in Paris, recuperating. I can only surmise the reason for her inadvertently saving your ass was probably to save the family name, not you. Don't get your hopes up. It's not that you're impossible to love, it's just that your mother is merely a hollow, vapid excuse of a person.

Oh, right. If you haven't figured it out by now (because who knows? Your usual keen intellect might have been dulled by the periodic sermon about how drugs are bad and blahblahblah...), I'm very much alive. Surprise, sweetheart. Sinners never go down easily, no matter how much heartless sluts like you send them off to die. I'm not about to give you all the credit of course. Do you honestly think I would not fight and kick screaming and yelling for another shot at my retaliation? Silly, silly beautiful rabbit... You should know that you and I are too much alike. If that death wish you call drugs can't kill you despite the obscene amount you stuff in your nose, then a fucking cab sure as hell can't finish the job for me.

But I digress.

That day of judgment I'd caused... You must admit that it was a masterpiece if you ever saw one. In fact, I'm sure that in some form or another you must have even admired the careful thinking I've placed into all of this. Surely you didn't think it was only Annette who thought up of all of it, did you? Come on, Kathryn. Give your favorite stepbrother a little credit. I don't give up easily. I remember standing during your speech while my casket lay behind you. You probably didn't see me though, Annette made sure of that. So, that speech you gave was very interesting... Something about how you could never reach out to me in time? And then, my favorite part of course was the one wherein you said I would want to tell you that I'm sorry.

Sure, I'm sorry. I'm sorry you're such a bitch. I'm sorry my father married your gold digging whore mother. I'm sorry you ever lived with me. But if I say that I'm sorry I ever met you, I'd be lying. If push comes to shove, I'm not sorry that I met you. Not at all, Kathryn.
But we had fun, didn't we? We've had our run, years and years of fucking people up have provided me with your invaluable companionship and the mirth from watching our victims fall. I had fun watching you that day, with your prim and proper school girl uniform and that disbelieving look in those gorgeous green eyes of yours as you rifled through my journal. Did you like what I've written? I must say my adjectives were somewhat crude but they got the message across. Deceitful. Alcoholic. I think there was even 'Bitch' in it. Then there was a certain phrase I'm sure caught your attention before you started crying.

Crying... Thank you for that, by the way. Truly a magnificent performance. And you say I had the flair for drama.

My love. Yes, that surprised you didn't it? What's ironic is that I had just spoken of love in such a hateful manner earlier, and yet here I am using it. On you of all people! Perhaps my statement of us being untainted by love then was wrong. I was already tainted. Unfortunately by you. Then, Kathryn. Then.

Alright, I suppose since you're there suffering (at least, I hope you are), I might as well enlighten you. Love... Yes, I shall discuss this to you now as though we were back in our house having another one of those long winded talks in your room. I loved those. I never really told you, but I looked forward to it. We would raid the bar in my father's study and walk back into your room. Remember? I'd sit on the armchair and you'd be on your bed, half seated up with those legs of your crossed. You always had that sultry look that never seemed to disappear except when you fell asleep. Even now as I think about those lazy nights and days, I can't help but be all nostalgic about it. We were happy then, however twisted it was. Happy in our own fucked up alcoholic world before love had to screw that up too. I loved you more than I ever loved anybody else in my entire life. Even Annette. Now, don't get all smug and arrogant, princess. I do love Annette. In fact, we're still together. I bet you're just seething at the moment, but please try to refrain from burning this letter until you actually finish it. I'm not going to talk about Annette. She has nothing to do with this and you know it. This is about us, Kathryn. Just the two of us, like it's always been.

Right. So, back to my point. I think you used the promise of sex to control me simply because you assumed I only wanted you to conquer you. How could you think so little of me? Am I that hormonal so as you could think the only head that really does the thinking is the one I keep in my pants? Oh, my darling, destroyed Kathryn... The mistakes we could have avoided now haunt me in your absence.
But yes, I have missed you. I do miss you. Every fucking day. I don't like it, but I can't help but instinctively wait for you to come back. I did love you, and I don't give a fuck if you're laughing your ass off or if you think that this is some victory you held over me. I got the final laugh, sweetheart. I may be suffering from when that fucking cab slammed into me, but you're suffering all the ways I had always imagined you would when I hated you. In your narrowminded opinion, in all the fucking years you've known me, did you honestly think the only reason why I allowed you to nearly dominate me was because I wanted to have sex with you?

Not only is that thought highly insulting, it's also far from the truth. When will you ever learn? How many times should I have showed it to you? How many women would I have had to flaunt in that beautiful face of yours to make you see that sex hadn't been all that I wanted from you? I wanted you. I didn't want to just fuck you or 'put it anywhere', as you succintly put during that cursed bet, I wanted to have you. To keep you. I always have, or rather, had.

I'm sure no amount of recollection about our fond past could make you forgive me for what I've done. I'm not asking for forgiveness from you, I know that despite the anger you must have right now, a part of you understands. This is it, my lovely stepsister. Our orchestra of irony and tragedy. Don't you live for those? We've been burned from all this deception and in the end, we paid the price. We lost what we had. I lost you, I lost your companionship and your affection and you lost everything that mattered. I'm not going to be thickheaded enough to say that it would include me, since what you mostly cared for was your precious upstanding in society. I'm not trying to be a fucking drama queen (that's truly more of your department), nor am I trying to reverse psychology you. You have dear Dr. Murdoch for that, right? That is the name of your fag shrink? You see, I have been keeping tabs on you. I do care. Just a bit. I know for a fact that he'll probably be someone who would annoy you to no end, with his bullshit talks of 'the steps to recovery'. I was the one who suggested Dr. Murdoch for you. Yes, sorry. I couldn't resist just twisting the knife a little deeper, you know, to match the one you stuck in my back the moment you sent your dear wonderful Ronald after me.

I know that I did matter to you because you never would have cried if my words were unimportant. I must admit that despite my bitterness toward your actions against me, I had the urge to step out of the car and end this stupid war the moment your face crumpled at the comprehension of my words. The truth hurts, doesn't it? So do you... As do I... We all hurt, Kathryn. Even now. Especially now. But yes, please just know that I loved you all the ways I knew. Fucked up, twisted, perverse and immoral. Was it wrong? No. Never. I don't regret anything. I don't regret that I did this to you, but then again, it must also be said that I don't regret loving you.

Yours (always, in some form),

Sebastian

PS. Attached is your crucifix with the screw welded shut. I'm sure you could use the companionship.

---

The following notes were taken during by Dr. Ian Murdoch in relation to a patient by the name of Ms. Kathryn Merteuil:

September 17th

5:00 PM

The patient seems to be subdued today. There are traces of weariness which are clearly written on her face, despite the monitoring of her food intake, she has lost five pounds for the first three weeks of her stay. There has never been any form of active reaction seen from her yet, and the heavy security measures her mother has ensured had forbidden friends and acquaintances to visit. This is not advisable, but my hands are tied.

5:10 PM

A letter arrived for Ms. Merteuil, curiously placed in an envelope with a waxed seal. I had initially thought of examining the letter in case there was an attempt to smuggle illegal substances but decided against it when observing how her facial expression changed as though she recognized the handwriting. Her normally impassive eyes had widened and her hands shook as she lifted the flap of the envelope. I could only guess what the actual contents of the letter are, but she read it quickly. Whatever emotion she may have lacked now passed through her while she read it, and to my surprise, I was able to notice from my vantage point, two drops of tears hit the paper.

This was then followed by the crumpling of the paper with a whispered profanity, she had turned and met my eyes as though she knew I had been watching her and simply glared bitterly. I knew then, here was a young woman capable of so much. She remained silent until approximately 8:05 PM, when she requested that this man, a Sebastian Valmont, be banned from continuing his letters to her. I also noticed, hidden in a tightly clenched fist, was what seemed to be a silver necklace with beads of some sort.

A/N: Now, before any of you smack the back of my head (probably B... And perhaps a few of the kind readers who miraculously like my DHr fics. Haha) for not finishing/updating the story which they wanted me to go to, like I said... I go where the wind takes me. This was inspired by the way Les Liaisons Dangereuses by Choderlos de Laclos was written, with a bit of tinkering of course. I had been taking a breather, I think I still am. See ya.