So it has come to this.

My hand shakes erratically as the ballpoint pen documents a story I never in my wildest imagination thought I’d be sharing. A letter describing acts so heinous and gruesome it’d make even the strongest stomach churn relentlessly in convulsive contractions of disgust. I can feel the bile rising in the back of my throat as the recollection unfolds. And with each trembling stroke of the pen, a recurring thought echoes; how did it come to this?

Dear Mom,

I just can’t stand the guilt anymore. Not after Ana left us. I can’t be around Vanessa after that. I don’t trust myself with her. What if the urges overcome me? What if I one night find myself choking the life out of my own baby daughter?

Tears stain the cheap printer paper. So many. There’s just so many. I can’t keep up with all of them. I suppose the details don’t really matter in the end. It’s the confession that’s vital. It’s the words that will damn me, not the names.

I’ve lost count. Twenty? Thirty? All young and pretty and full of life. Necks so long and slender and fragile. Eyes sparkling with hopes and dreams. To witness all that vanish? To watch as the flickering light of life fade and disappear? To have the power to single-handedly remove someone from existence? Who can resist such temptations? I know I can’t.

The crib creaks discordantly as it rocks hypnotically back and forth. Thank heavens Vanessa is sleeping. I don’t want her to see this. I don’t want her to remember her father dangling from a rope.

You will find evidence in my basement. Pictures, trophies. Enough to identify my Subjects. Enough to convict me in a posthumous trial. Enough to offer some manner of peace and solace to the grieving masses.

Almost at the end now. A strange calm overcomes me. Facing the inevitability of everything. End of the line. And I know deep down it’s the only way. Only way to be sure. I can see the harrowing rope swinging restlessly in my peripheral vision. A constant, sobering reminder of the nature of my letter.

I love you mom. Please believe that. And please, I beg of you, take care of Vanessa. Raise her as your own. Forget about me. Forget I ever existed. Let her play with her uncle and aunts and cousins. Let her grow up and live a full life. Let her live.

I guess that’s it. That’s all I need. I hold the tear-stained letter up to the light, a worried glance thrown toward the ever-creaking crib.

“Very good, “ my brother says, a disturbing grin manifesting on his lips as he slowly removes the blade resting on my sleeping daughter’s throat.

“Now sign it.”