Creepypastas

To My Sister Becky

Dear Becky,

It pains me to say that, by the time you read this, I'll have been long gone. Don't worry about me — just know that my death was instantaneous and painless. My only regret is that I have so irresponsibly left you alone, without someone to provide for you when you need it most. I have gathered quite a lot of money, and there's also the house, both of which are now yours. They will keep your dialysis going for a long while and should be more than enough to cover the surgery, if a suitable donor is found in the following years.

I suppose the only thing I won't be able to do is be there for you, to hold your hand, chat with you and just be your friend when you need one. Believe me, I treasured the times that we had together, I really did, and if there was any other way to escape the hell I'm trapped in, I would've taken it in a heartbeat.

Becky, the last week has been excruciatingly painful for me. I've been shaking all over, my hair has been falling off, sleep is almost out of the question entirely, and it seems to be getting worse. I haven't left my apartment at all in three days. I've barricaded myself in the living room, curled up in the corner with only a notebook and Dad's pistol. Every waking moment is a horrible nightmare — my eyes sting when I look at the walls and outright burn when I close them, my fingers are trembling so much that it takes me minutes to write even a single word, and my ears are pretty much useless at this point.

Honestly, it's a struggle to not just close the notebook and end it all right here and now, but that wouldn't be fair to you. Because I know that you will blame yourself for my demise, and you need an explanation so that you'll know I'm in a hell of my own creation. Please forgive me, for the horrible things I will describe in such excruciating details will undoubtedly make you sick to your stomach. But the only way you can understand my predicament is if you could place yourself in my shoes and see what I have seen.

It all started roughly a month ago with, what else, an e-mail. It was from some creep, asking to see videos of the examinations performed at the clinic, particularly those of the female patients. In hindsight, I shouldn't have responded to something so disgusting at all, but I did. I told him that as a doctor I could never allow such an invasion of privacy, especially when my patients are just children. There was no way it could ever happen, and I warned him that if he wrote me again I'd contact the police.

He did write me again, Becky. He offered to pay me money for every video I sent him. A lot of money. More than I make in a week. He said that all other pediatricians he spoke with agreed to that offer, but if I wanted more we could negotiate. I should have said no, I should have stood my ground and reported him to the police — hell, I should have assumed that it was the police, that I was being set up. But I didn't. I was scared that I wouldn't be able to pay for a transplant if a donor was found, that something might happen to the clinic and I might lose my job, that I would no longer be able to pay for your treatment... All kinds of nightmarish scenarios went through my head, none of which were justified, but they all seemed like such real possibilities at the time. And I made the biggest mistake of my life. I said yes.

I went online, under a fake name, and bought a small HD camera, which I then had delivered to a friend who had no idea what I was up to, or even what item I was picking up from her. I placed the camera on top of one of the medical cabinets near the corner of my office, facing the examination bed. It was practically invisible unless you were specifically looking for it. I was a bit nervous, but it was the type of nervousness that came with trying something forbidden for the first time, like sneaking out after curfew when you're a kid. I had pushed the fact that I would be violating the trust my patients had put in me to the back of my mind.

To me, my biggest concern was not getting caught. And I wasn't. I managed to film the examination of every girl that came into my office. I even went the extra mile for the sake of my twisted employer's pleasure, making them remove their clothes even when they were only suffering from a cold or a minor injury. When I think about it, it makes me want to throw up. But, as sick as it was, it worked — I sent the videos to the man on the other end of the e-mail, and he wired a five digit sum to my account. All that from a single day of "working" for him.