𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐕𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐬' 𝐃𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐞𝐫 (𝐀 𝐃𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐑𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞)

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ᴏɴᴇ: ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴀɴ ᴡʜᴏ ᴀᴛᴇ ᴍʏ ᴘᴀʀᴇɴᴛs

July 21st, 2004

"AAAHHHH!"

"Priscilla? Is everything alright, dear?"

I look up to see Ms. Cheryl, the old lady from across the street, peering at me over her glasses with a worried expression.

"Oh, yes! Everything is fine, Ms. Cheryl. Better than fine, actually!"

Ms. Cheryl doesn't look entirely convinced, but she nods and goes back to watering her petunias or whatever it is that retired elderly people do all day. Meanwhile, I'm still standing in front of the mailbox, the letter clutched to my chest, grinning like a total idiot.

I've been waiting for this moment for as long as I can remember. For years I've been on a quest to learn everything there is to know about my parents. Even the super scary, makes-you-wanna-hide-under-the-covers parts. I've read every article, watched every news clip, and even tried to track down people who might know something about the man who murdered my parents.

The man who ate my parents.

I turn and practically sprint up to my room, taking the stairs two at a time. I jump onto my bed, bouncing a little as I land, and just stare at the envelope. It's addressed to me, "My Victims' Daughter", in Richard's handwriting. Well, at least I think it's his handwriting. I've never actually seen it before.

I rip open the envelope, being super careful not to tear the precious letter inside. I unfold the paper, and I start reading, my eyes devouring every word like it's the last slice of pizza at a slumber party—

July 19, 2004

Hey there, sweet thing,

It's not every day a guy like me gets a taste of sunshine in this concrete jungle, but your words, they're like honey. First things first, I want you to know that I'm real glad to hear from you. I hope you're doing alright, holding your head up high despite all the cards that've been dealt your way.

Now, I know you've been through hell and back. It's a pain that no one should have to bear, especially not a delicate flower like yourself. I want to help you in any way I can. Answer any questions asked. If there's anything I can do to ease your troubled mind, you just say the word.

Why don't you tell me your name? I've got a feeling it's pretty. You want to know the man behind the monster. I want to know the girl behind the pen, the soul behind the words.

I know you've been feeling lonely, like the world's forgotten about you. But trust me, sugar, a gem like you won't be alone forever. Until then, you've got me. Your friend, your confidant. I'll be here, waiting for your next letter like a sailor waits for the morning tide.

Yours truly,

Richie

It's everything I ever wanted and more. Richie's words, they're like poetry, like a song that speaks directly to my soul. I read the letter over and over again, committing every phrase and every comma to memory. I grab a pen and some paper, and I start scribbling away.

"Dear Richard," I begin, but then I stop.

No, that's too formal.

I crumple up the paper and toss it aside.

"Hey there, Richie." Definitely not.

It's like my brain is a big bowl of alphabet soup, and I can't seem to find the right words to spell out what I want to say.

But, after a few more failed attempts, I finally settle on something that feels right.

July 21st, 2004