Work Text:
It's been almost a week. Three days to be exact.
The place got dirty after you left, but most other people also left after that.
I wish you were still here you know?
Maybe it's always been messy, but I was busy being around you, so much so that I didn't even notice.
. . .
Perhaps it's all simple, no one bothered to clean anymore, cause there was almost no one left.
But no one was there to dirty the place either, just a few people.
The few people here, they're mainly just there for a few hours, scavenging to find anything worth a penny.
. . .
so it must've always looked like this.
Just the dust is new, it settled on top of every obstacle. I never knew how much you ment to me till you stopped being here.
Wherever you might be, it might even be for the better that you're gone, but, you also could be dead, dead for good.
I wish you could have seen what he did. The blood of the innocent that splattered everywhere.
...
"I mean... you were no better, but those were children, you wouldn't hurt children for some sick experiment."
.
.
.
It's been two weeks, I hope you're alright.
Sometimes I find myself scrubbing the table we used to sit on, maybe to eat on clean again or just to relive the moments when we would sit together.
May left a while ago, he went back to his wife, making sure Kevin was safe.
.
.
.
It's been three weeks.
Has the place always been that dull? The windows so dirty? Various places growing mold?
Maybe the dusty windows make the place look dull. I mean I could clean them, but there's no point in that anymore.
.
.
.
Its been four weeks, or a moon, whatever you call it Wanda.
Met Macalo again, you probably have no clue who she is but whatever, I never talk about you, I wish I would, but there's no point mentioning the dead.
I'm not sure if you're dead, but given the last shit you said, I wouldn't be surprised if. Been scrubbing the weird house. You have no clue what I'm talking about Wanda. I mean, you get your fingers onto info no matter what, so maybe you do know what I'm talking about.
.
.
.
Six weeks.
I dont know why I keep coming back to this pen and paper, writing letters I know I'll never send. Found some lavender in the garden, it reminded me of you. I hope you're okay out there.
If I cleaned the mess, would you come back? I wish we could have talked about it, before you left. I could have been a great help I'm sure. I hope we meet again, may it be in hell or alive.
This shall be the last letter I'll write to you.
...
"I hope you come back when you cleaned the mess out of your life. You were the mess of my life, hopefully never your own"