The Murder Of 1998

Chapter Fifteen

The birds chirping right next to the kitchen window was what made Raymond wake up. He slowly lifted his eyelids. There was a putrid smell that made him move his hand up to his nose to cover it up. In doing so, his hand ran across the pool of vomit that was right next to his face. He grimaced.

"Ew," He hissed, flailing his hand to shake off the vomit. But once he realized it was on the side of his face and all over his black suit—which he was too drunk to take off—he let out a noise of disgust and quickly sat up. "Oh fuck," He said as he felt the pounding in his head intensify after sitting up too quickly.

The rays of the morning summer sun swam inside of the house, making it brighter and easier for Raymond to see. 

What time even is it?

This time, he slowly got up from the floor as his vomit slid down his face and clothes. He looked at the clock on the stove. Eight ten. Raymond sighed and looked down at his clothes. He felt sweaty and unclean. He left the kitchen and walked to the bathroom upstairs as he unclothed himself on the way there. He started up the shower and finally took off his boxers, tossing them to the side as he entered the shower.

Despite the amazing feeling of the water hitting his skin and washing away all the uncleanliness, it wasn't enough. He scrubbed himself as hard as he could with the soap. But nothing could get rid of the feeling.

Eventually, he decided that it was enough and turned off the shower. He wrapped the white towel around his waist, not even drying himself. He walked out of the bathroom and thought about what to eat since he hadn't had anything to eat since yesterday morning. And even then it was still so little. He needed something to help absorb everything in his system rather than just alcohol. That way, it could help with his headache.

He walked down the stairs, stepping over the clothes he threw while making his way to the bathroom. He walked back into the kitchen, careful not to step onto the pool of vomit.

"Fucking hell," He whispered, staring down at everything he had to drink last night. It was all on the floor, stinking up the entire kitchen. "Wheres that damn mop?" He walked around the house in search of a mop.

He came back to the kitchen with a mop in one hand and a bucket in the other. He filled up the bucket and set it down on the floor, proceeding with mopping up his own vomit.

"There, that should be good." Raymond rubbed his temple and propped the mop inside the bucket and against the kitchen counter. On top of the kitchen island was all the mail he didn't check last night.

Maybe it was a good time to check it.

He grabbed the mountain of mail and walked to the living room, sitting on the couch. It had been a while since he last checked the mail. He figured that most of them were all bills he had yet to pay. All the money he spent on alcohol could have been spent on paying off the bills. It only stressed Raymond out even more.

With each letter he saw, he threw them onto the coffee table.

"Bills, bills, bills, bi—" He stopped. In his hand he was staring at an envelope with a red wax stamp that sealed it shut. He looked at it closely and noticed it had a rose imprinted on it.

"What is this, 1898?" He rolled his eyes but decided to open it up. Inside was a letter written in neat cursive. It wasn't like any other cursive writing he ever saw. He could actually read each and every single letter that the person wrote. But everything that the person wrote made Raymond frozen in utter shock as he read it.

To Raymond Hunter, the loneliest man in the world,

Every word I have written down on this paper is the whole truth and nothing but the truth; I killed your wife.