Fool. Idiot. Bête.
Ah, perhaps those are the wrong words with which to open a love letter—but since you seem so intent on spurning any attempts of love, I may as well speak my mind, non? You are infuriating. Impressive, yes, how much you see—and yet you miss the most important things. You caught me! But alas, it seems that once again I have eluded you.
An illness. You are frustration incarnate, chiding me for your fever while what you have given me is terminal, makes me sluggish, makes me opaque, makes me…a man of my profession is never weak. Still, you weaken me. My symptoms have not escaped your discerning gaze: the wandering eyes, the shortness of breath, and the hunger—yes, you diagnosed me correctly—the hunger for you. I cannot hide from you, you claim—very well, then. I shall no longer conceal my intentions concerning you, or at least, not those that you so soundly reasoned out. But be warned, cretin, I am at least a little better at my job than you seem to believe, and you a little worse at yours—there are things you missed; such as my capacity to care. But never mind that—the careless one is you; we shall move on.
I don't expect you to trust me. You are not so much of a half-wit as that, or at least, if you are, you've hidden it very well. But to deny my invitation before giving me a chance to extend it, oh, fou! You do not know what you are declining. It is true what you say, that I would have to betray my team or you, but it is obvious whom I would choose, if one simply reasons it out a moment. After all, you are entirely aware of my intentions, whereas my team remains happily ignorant. Are you following me, bushman?
Of course you are not. This did not occur to you, nor did it occur to you that I am perhaps not all I seem to your shaded eyes. It did not enter your mind that none of us, not even I, is immune to the ravages of the symptoms of affection. That denying something for which you ache is not necessarily a good thing. That you would miss a single feature in your simplistic, far-off analysis of me. You claim to not be stupid, but it is obvious that that is not true, for you are starving yourself of titillating experience on the grounds of imaginary principle.
So, convict, I pray that you never recover. You have been my soporific and my stumbling block, and instead of giving me assurance, finding out just how you feel has left me furious. So consider yourself warned, fils de pute: from this day forward you shall feel my wrath. You may sense eyes burning into you, but not until too late will you locate them. You may feel arms wrap around you, but no longer shall I be gentle with my handling of you; you will feel the iron clutch of my fingers around your beautiful, bobbing Adam's apple. You may hear my breath quicken, but always with a snarl before a gasp. And with each blade that sinks between your spineless vertebrae, with each shot that echoes through your puny brain, may you remember whom it is you scorn. Perhaps the metallic glint of my instruments of death will remind you that you might have had a warmer touch, administered with gentle hands and a breathless gaze. I want nothing more than to inflict on you a thousand little deaths, but there is more than one way to make a man writhe and scream.
I can only hope that one day your eagle eyes and professional skill will live up to the reputation you have built them, and that your lovely little brain will one day be able to wrap around the notion that I am not so shallow as you have decided—but come, try to wade, and I shall suck you under, never allowing you to surface again. I am just as ill as you, or worse; perhaps we both are chronic. Perhaps we are each other's antidotes. Or poisons.
Perhaps one day you will be brave enough to find out. Until that day, I am the demon at your heels.
Avec tout mon amour sincere,
Your favourite ghost.
P.S. You may be wondering how I procured your previous unsent emissary? Hm, well, you may also want to consider a lock for your camper door, to be employed while you slumber. Tu dors comme une ange malheureuse.