Survival of the Unfit

Epilogue

April,

One. Do not murder my face when you see me again (unless murder is kiss the hell out of, in your terms).

Two. Mr. Swanson, if you're reading this, that's kind of lame but I still respect you.

*And side note on two, this is not a suicide note, Mr. Swanson. In case you were concerned.

Okay. April. I told your Dad to make sure you got this after Saturday, so hopefully, it's after Saturday and you're reading this. I don't know what state I'll be in. You'll probably be in denial though, I can guarantee that.

Oh god, am I fucking terrible at writing letters. Er, I really don't know what exactly to say besides sorry. I mean, I'm sure you've figured it out by now that I betrayed our promise to stand the killer up, and I'm sure you've already chewed my brain out about it, but if I'm unconscious or in a coma this is my first and foremost apology. If I am in a coma, the first words I will say when waking up are "sorry".

You have to understand that I am really, really, really, REALLY in love with you. God, am I in fucking love with you, April. I wish I could find a way to combine the English language in such a way to describe it right, but these twenty-six letters we're assigned simply aren't enough. I'd have to take words from the French, verbs from the Germans, syllables from Russia, roots from Latin, the flow of Italian, the precision of Mandarin, the articulate nature of Afrikaans, the goddamn accent of a Spanish woman from the middle of a Madrid market to properly capture, in writing, how much I love you. Sadly I only speak English and French at a third grade level. Ou est la toilette? Omlette du fromage. Just imagine that accent though.

I'm terrible at keeping it serious too, my god. I'm scared, okay. I'm scared about going, because if you're reading this while I'm in a coma, I might as well be completely honest: I could die. Not saying I will, of course I won't. But everyone has a chance of dying every minute they're alive, don't they? I mean you drive your car and maybe someone didn't get enough sleep the night before. Or your body hasn't seen that virus and can't fight it. Or maybe there's the scary thought of dropping into a mental disorder, whether it be depression or anorexia or anything else. Whatever it is, we're all at risk. Some risks are more dangerous than others.

You know, I remember kicking my feet up in Vincenzo's with Hailey across the table, comparing you to communism. I said you were better in theory. And I openly admit I was wrong as hell about that. I remember your annoyance when I talked to you, and I remember how cute I thought you looked with all that icing smeared over your apron and your hands dyed blue. You were so adorable behind the counter in your own little world. I wanted nothing more than to be a part of it. If I'm continuing with the linguistics metaphor here, I wanted to learn every language of your movement.

It didn't start there though. I mean, it started the moment you ran into me in the woods, I think. You were like a Russian doll: layers upon layers of personality, all tucked into each other, all hidden from the world. You were sassy and impulsive under that cute, baker's façade you had going on, and damn, do I love it. I love your complexity. I love not being able to figure you out, and I loved not being able to figure out what I felt about you.

And I'll never forget our sleepover. God, I can't believe you actually made out with me. No, I can't believe that whole, impulsive, grabbing your wrist and pulling you like a bad movie deal worked. My god. I'm a genius.

Hey, this vain attitude of mine covers up how awfully sappy this letter is, since your Dad might be reading this too. In which case, I did not make out with your daughter. Half naked. And encouraged her to lie to you about staying the night at Hailey's.

*Side note, you can strangle me when I wake up from my coma if your Dad asks.

But...ah. I love you. April Swanson, I love you and life is too short anymore. You ever realize how short life is and how much time we spend doing just...bullshit? Complete and utter bullshit? We don't ask the girl out on a date or tell the guy behind the counter his tats are cool. We're so fucking self-conscious and self-aware, all of us, everywhere. All these restrictions, I say fuck 'em. Fuck every last societal norm and gender role, fuck every physical expectation and fuck wasps in particular, am I right? Fuck wasps. I hate them.

Now April, I am a reckless human being, but I will try not to wreck you. You must understand by now that I'm every natural disaster there is. You must know that I hurt people a lot, especially the ones I love, because of my ignorance of imaginary restrictions. You must understand the aftermath is goddamn nuclear fallout, and all I do is glance behind me and keep moving forward. I am why storms are named after people.

Nah, I'm shitting with you about that last line. I do seem to hurt a lot of people though, but I guess the thing is that the ones I love never find out. Mom and Dad don't know about my patrol. Julia doesn't know the risks I take, not fully. Hailey, she doesn't know how god awful it is (hell, I thought she was going to have a panic attack after seeing me splattered with some blood). You're different though. You know what I do and every risk I take as well as yourself, and that's why I'm terrified I'll hurt you worse than what I've done to anyone before. Ticking time bombs, remember? Perhaps the one thing you don't know is what I'm about to do. So I'm sorry. Forgive me, okay?

I don't know where I'm going in this life of mine. I hope we can spend some of it together though, April. So forgive me for what I'm about to do. And forgive yourself, always.

I love you. And I'll see you again, don't you worry.

As sappy and disgustingly emotional as possible,

Levi.

p.s. If I'm in that coma, my journals are located under a secondary floorboard beneath where I keep my weapons. I started it when the whole killer thing began, to sort of document what was going on, keep my thoughts straight. You'll find lots of things about you in them, don't be freaked out.

p.s.s. And uh, don't look unless I'm in a coma. Or dead. And then maybe you can publish them and add your own commentary. That'd be neat, wouldn't it?

p.s.s.s. It'd make one hell of a story, Swanson.

THE END.