Letters from the Dead

Two months later

Gerard heard the pitter-patter of rainfall on the roof, and stared blankly out of the window. Lightning flashed across the sky.

One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi...

He heard the roar of thunder overhead as he flicked the ashes of his cigarette into an ashtray before snuffing it out. A quick glance at the clock revealed that it was four in the afternoon. He stretched, feeling the kinks in his neck ease and he sighed in relief.

He stood up from the black leather sofa and went into the bedroom, picking up the three letters he had written.

Ray. Frank. Bob.

He hesitated before heading towards the kitchen table, where he had left the single red rose that he had picked up from the florist. His fingers brushed the soft velvet petals as he wandered back to the sofa, dazed.

The florist had told him that a single red rose in the language of flowers meant “I love you”.

He had scoffed and replied, “How could a flower mean anything? It’s fragile, fleeting…”

The elderly woman had simply smiled and cut him off half-rant, “Exactly like how love is. Because it is so vulnerable… It is precious.”

He had gone quiet for a moment before smiling at the florist and paying for the flower.

He was arranging the letters on the coffee-table, and placing the rose over Frank’s letter when a strong sense of déjà vu hit him.

He laughed bitterly.

Without even realising it, he was re-enacting his dream again.

He stumbled back to the sofa, suddenly feeling extremely fatigued. He drew his gun and released the safety catch. His breath caught, and he glanced at the corner of the living room, half-expecting to see the apparition of Lizzie again.

But there was nothing.

He had enough of it already.

He was sick of having the same dream over and over again, sick of waking up, screaming and crying every night, sick of worrying his lover. He was sick of the phone-calls that came at night. Sick of the fear that struck him whenever he heard Lizzie’s voice. Sick of telling himself over and over again that whatever he was seeing or hearing was fake even though it felt so real. He was sick of the hallucinations bleeding into his reality. He couldn’t even tell the difference between them anymore.

He had enough.

He smiled as he calmly pressed the barrel of the gun against his temple.

“You win, Lizzie.”

He squeezed the trigger.