Writer Games: The Final Twist & A Night in Wattpad Manor & Faction Wattpad

Letters Never to be Sent: Jamie Webber

Dear Chloe,

If I'd decided  to write a letter from home, you wouldn't have been my first choice for  the recipient. In fact, you know me too well - when would I ever  voluntarily write a letter?

Things have  changed. I don't mean personality wise, like I'm suddenly the kind of  person to keep in touch with family and actually do things with his  life. No, things have changed outside my home, outside the family.

If anything  happens to me, I want to start off by saying I'm sorry. You took the  money you were given and turned it into a successful career. Now you  live in Madrid, with a loving husband and two children who I only ever  see if I bother to turn up to the family Christmas dinner.

I'm still  single. I'm still unemployed. As far as I know, I'm still childless. I  still have a drinking problem. I still enjoy cricket. I'm still the same  lazy brother you left behind at the airport when you first moved.

Yet, in other  ways, I've changed. I'm writing to you from an expensive table, in a  house worth more than Mom and Dad's. It's a mansion, bigger than  anything I've ever seen. I came for a party, for a few drinks, a few  girls. I didn't know the person who invited me, I just know they  promised me money. I never turn down money.

I should have  seen this coming, really. It's too cliché; if you ever get a invitation  from a mysterious and unidentified sender, never attend the event. I  don't even know if you'll get this letter, because the doors are locked,  the electricity is suddenly temperamental and all but six of us a dead.

I know - it sounds like an old game of Cluedo, right?

I'm scared  Chloe. I am sitting in a room with five others, and all of us are  writing letters. We've all searched the place top to bottom, we know  there is no one else. Someone here is a killer, and it's not me. I've  been living the last few hours in a drunken haze, but nerves have made  me turn to coffee. Coffee, Chloe, the brown bitter stuff that I never  drink. I was so scared of being so away in my own head that I found  myself desperate to sober up. The headaches gone, but the drink still  burns in my mouth.

I never want to  touch alcohol again, not after what this has put me through. I always  turn to alcohol when I have even the smallest problem. Then, this  started happening and my brain just decided to put me out of it.

People being murdered?

Screw that, let's go raid the wine cellar.

But anyway, I'm  rambling, yet another of my flaw. I'm writing this letter for a reason,  I'm writing it to make up for all those times we fought as children. I'm  apologising for all those times I criticised you for working hard,  saying our parents would always give us money. You got away, with a  happy life with a loving family and a brilliant job.

I'm serving my  sentence for my crimes, but I don't want you to think I want  forgiveness. I'm probably the worst, greediest, most selfish little  brother anyone has ever had. Someone like you deserves better.

Until I begun  writing this letter, I couldn't even remember what the name of your  children were - my own niece and nephew still remain nameless in my  head. Then, whilst I am still ashamed that your son still has no  identity for me, I remembered your daughter, because she is the thing I  need most.

Hope.

You named your  daughter Hope for a reason, a reason that I've long forgotten because I  was distracted by cricket scores and lukewarm beer. Forgetting  things is easy for me, isn't it? If I had the choice, I would leave  right now and forget this entire murder mystery ever happened. I  shouldn't forget though, because I feel it's changed me. I no longer  like alcohol, associating it to bad memories. I am no longer interested  in cricket, because other things are more important. I no longer feel  lazy, because I realise now that life is short, and you shouldn't spend  it in a comfy chair watching re-runs of sporting matches.

So Chloe, if I  don't get out of this alive, please keep this letter. Keep it as a  reminder of me. Keep it as evidence for the police. I don't care, just  shove it in the back of your cupboard somewhere, and make sure you find  it again at some point.

Because I want you to remember I want to change.

And I want you to remember I'm sorry.

Jamie