Well, you certainly put me in my place, didn't you? I tell you you'll never escape, and you go and fucking die on me. Why I'm even writing this, I'll never know. What the fuck, Edward? They say it was a heart attack, that you'd never had a history of heart disease, but a flaw in your atrium or ventricle or what the fuck ever it was that was apparently there from birth had been building all this time and finally took you out one night while you slept. No one heard you cry out or scream; it looked like you went all peaceful like.

I cried when I saw it on the news, cried like it was someone from my own family. It felt like I lost my own heart that day. I knew I'd grown attached to you—knew it was more than what would be considered healthy or normal considering all that's passed between us. Never would I have thought though that your passing would slay me this much. I swear, I can't explain it, but I actually feel worse than I did after that monster raped me. How the fuck did you make me love you this much? Is this even love? Love is supposed to be pure and beautiful. There's no beauty in this; it's all raw, open wounds and bleeding organs. I remember how I felt when my parents died; it wasn't like this at all. It hurt, but that hurt was from missing them, and knowing they weren't ready to leave yet. This, this is nothing like that. If someone came along and decided it would be fun to eviscerate me while I watched, maybe that would compare. Why is it so physical? How is it possible for my body to actually feel your absence from this earth? I hurt, Edward. I hurt so fucking much!

Are you really gone? I feel like such a fucking moron even writing these words on a paper that will probably never leave my apartment. But, what if you're not dead? What if you really did escape? I look at your last letter, and I think about what I wrote back to you; is this what you're capable of when you're well and truly angry? Some kind of fantastic trickery? Or, something else? Maybe what I feel isn't loss, but fear. Because, if you're not dead—if you somehow have managed to pull the biggest con in history—then where does that leave us? Especially in light of my last words to you? Am I grasping at straws to keep you alive? Or, do I hope you're really dead?

This apartment is a disgusting cesspool. I haven't left it since I heard the news—not even to take the trash to the incinerator. The smell in here is rotten and rancid, and it's not just the garbage and old, moldy food. I'm afraid to take a shower, to be hidden away from the rest of my apartment. The people in the other apartments know something's wrong. They've knocked and asked to come in; I've ignored them all. They jeer and call out that they can smell something foul and disgusting in here from the hallway. I don't care, but I know they'll be forcing their way in soon. I don't know what I'll do then; I have a feeling it won't go well.

Please, if you can, come for me? Kill me or save me-whichever-only don't make me stay here anymore. I'm tired of being me and having only myself all the time.

I hear something out in my hallway again. Probably the landlord coming to force his way in. I fucking hate my life.

A/N: Well, I'm not sure how my readers will feel about this, but that's it. The end. I read and re-read what I wrote, and it all seems very much the way they would both react and I don't see it going any further while being able to keep within the letters format. It's up to your imagination what happens next...for now. Lol - I'm not that cruel! I'm going to finish Fear and Loathing - only a few chapters left - and then I'm going to start a part two to this story that will be in regular story format instead of letters back and forth. It will be a separate entry within my profile as I want to keep this one with just the letters and the one outtake from Edward. Thank you all again for all the great comments I've received - it's been awesome having so many people really enjoy this story and get involved with these two broken people. See you all for round two...