The other night my dear, as I lay down to sleep, this heart of mine stopped beating for a second or two as your image burnt through my mind and your laughter haunted my ears; I wheezed for breath but it felt like my throat had constricted until there was no passage for air.
I coughed and coughed in a desperate attempt for air until scarlet droplets covered the white-tiled floor by my feet and my head felt as light as it would whenever I breathed in your scent, it felt like the guilt of your death would finally crush me, but just then the door burst open and he rushed in, worry evident in his familiar pretty eyes as he took in my tortured state, blood painting my lips red.
He helped me to my feet and then to the bathroom with a firm and gentle grip, and handed me an aspirin and a glass of water after I had rinsed the blood out of my mouth, just like you always did.
There was an uncanny similarity between you and he, I saw it in the way he took the glass from me and set it down on the side table, little too close to the edge, before following me out to the balcony and in the way he swatted the lit cigarette away from my lips and crushed it viciously under his heel, directing a disapproving look at me.
I couldn’t take it anymore, the similarity, it was too much and I started laughing.
I laughed and laughed and laughed, and it was the laugh of a crazed mind, a mad woman.
You would not stop torturing me from even beyond the grave itself, it seemed.