My Dearest Karen,
Before I continue my letter to you, I feel as if I must say a few things. I feel as if it is important to premise what I write to you. In lieu of recent events, I wish to tell you that I am not angry and I’m sorry. Even though I know it is untrue, but I feel like it was I who dragged you into all of this. To me, the blood is on my hands… quite literally. For this, I am sorry. Nevertheless, what has happened cannot be changed. I am sure you haven’t the foggiest idea what I am saying just yet, but you shall know soon, my dear. I will tell you what it is I am speaking of only if you know that I’m not angry…just slightly troubled.
Two days ago, I came into your home late at night, through the window. I had planned on surprising you by putting my mask on like older times. Suffice to say, you weren’t there. I had missed my final chance to stay with you because of what I came upon there.
In your trailer, I discovered in your bedside table, and unsent letter to one Erica Friedman. I wouldn’t have had the least inclination to let my eyes graze something usually personal if the name hadn’t struck a chord. Of course, at this point, the acquaintance is mostly irrelevant, but know that it is a name I fear. Upon reading this letter, I realized your intentions and what they meant. I also understand now that whatever action you take is entirely out of my control. I understand my place as much as you do yours. That is why it ails me that it must be this way.
In my frenzy after absorbing the contents of your letter, I proceeded to scavenge the rest of the place. This is when it came to my attention exactly what it is you plan to do. I found your copy of the rituals and the prophecy, and, as you know your schematic shoved in it. At this point, I thought I heard the truck pulling up to the trailer so I fled into the warm Bolivian night.
I fell asleep very troubled, although today, I can’t tell you why. I should have been prepared for this; come to terms rather, so much earlier. It plagued me and my sleep Karen, so I awoke just before dawn to drive. I did so many things that I have always wanted to do. But therein lay the stigma of contemplation. What will I say to Karen Mitchell? What could I possibly tell the only one I’ll ever love about her decided actions against me?
I visited Rio yesterday and saw Jesus. I stayed with him crying at his feet for the majority of the day and its only when the Brazilian sun set that I gained the flux of knowledge that ties all of this shit together. It was then I decided what I would say to you. It was then I knew that this is the right thing.
Dear Karen Mitchell,
May the Lord bless thee and keep thee.
There are some events that are fate, or the will of God, that no man can change. We, in turn, must accept these things and let them be.
If I am not dead before this reaches you, then come to me and know that with me, you will be safe.
Sincerely,
Charles Ramon