To my sweet Amy,
Every time I look at this photo of your mother and me, I can hear your voice. “I don’t want to shoot, daddy,” you said. “Please don’t make me.”
You were afraid. You thought shooting a photo was the same as shooting a gun. I mean, they could be. Sometimes. They both cause hearts to stop—in either a frozen memory to forever cherish or a frozen corpse to forever remember. Now we know that only one of those two can become reanimated.
Your mother… She was living proof of that horrifying truth.
You see, I didn’t kill mommy, sweetie. I know it’s hard for you to understand that, but I saved mommy. I saved her from… whatever this damn sickness is.
Now I’m sick, too.
Do you remember when you got sick that one time after you kissed mommy? It was when she had a throat infection. Well, the same has happened to me.
She always left me breathless after each kiss, but this time she also took my lips.
I can still hear your voice as I stare at the door in front of me. “I don’t want to shoot, daddy,” you said. “Please don’t make me.”
You should’ve, sweetie. You should’ve shot me right in the head. It’s the only way. The only way to save me.
I want to be the memory you’ll forever cherish, not the walking corpse that will forever haunt you.
I’m so cold, Amy.