[ HELP ]: a letter written by the writer to the recipient, asking the recipient for help.
i’m not going to fill this letter with a shoddy excuse of a cock and bull story. i’m gone and i don’t know how long it’ll be until i return, if i even return at all.
when you walk the path i do, you find that oftentimes it’s better to walk it alone. it’s dark and dangerous and you’ll be bartering at crossroads instead of crossing the street to exchange sugar for an egg with a neighbour. people will get hurt. people will die. there’s no two ways about it ─ one or the other will happen and you will have to be used to it because that’s just how the world works. she’s a cruel mistress. she doesn’t stop turning just because i have willed it for one more night or week of selfish serendipity before reality slaps me across the face and confronts me about my affair with greed. this means all you can do is slow down the inevitable so, naturally, this is the part of my journey where i have to hurt somebody. it’s not enough, but james will be okay.
you’re probably wondering why i’m telling you this and honestly, me too. it crossed my mind that i’m wasting time, that you probably don’t give a fuck and this letter will meet the bottom of your rubbish bin with your sad leftovers the second you realise who it’s from. throw it if you want, i won’t be around to care. i know you’ll dig it out and read it properly once your general disdain for me has subsided and you decide to not be a prick for five minutes.
i need your help, it’s as simple as that.
it’s bold of me to ask that of you, i know, and i wouldn’t have turned to you if it wasn’t important which you know. follow my instructions, don’t follow my instructions, it makes no difference like i said ─ but i need to write this down, to you, so i know it’s been said. this is evidence that i have been here, that i loved, and that i still love.
i’ve left james a letter, similar to this one, with very little detail of my disappearance. it’s sat to the side of me right now, half-written, and by tonight it will be full of honesty so unrelenting it strips me bare, right down to the bone. it’s bursting at the seams with everything my heart couldn’t carry and i need you to treat it as a lie.
it shouldn’t come with effort. i’ve made hating me pretty easy ─ i’ve had over two decades and a lifetime of mistakes to perfect the art of bringing about abhorrence with my name so choose something. anything. say i left because i no longer love him ─ say it happened overnight, i found someone else, and i moved on. dig something up from my past to support your point. do whatever you have to do, just as long as the end goal involves him, by your side, loathing john constantine.
i know you can do it, and that will you do it, and that you’ll understand, despite my explanation or lack thereof, why it has to be this way. i’d do it myself but james is smart ─ he’d try to talk me out of it. it wouldn’t work: we’d argue and scream obscenities at each other until one of us caves. fuck, he’d probably present a convincing case to let him come with. he’d die for us if he could.
i’m hoping to one day be naught but a distant memory; a blur of somebody you both used to know. there’ll be stories that you might try to remember but my name won’t leave your tongue ─ you’ll swear you haven’t forgot and yet you can’t seem to fully recall how it sounded. it’s like your body is physically preventing you from thinking of me in a way that matters. john-something, you’ll say, and ignoring the pang in your chest and gut you’ll laugh, hastily moving onto the next story.
he leads with the heart and you lead with your head. you always have. this is why i ask this of you, donnie. i’m sticking the knife in now and walking away before james has even realised he’s bleeding. duty calls and i can’t do that while accepting something i never deserved.
he’ll be safe that way. so will you.
i told you, i’m a nasty piece of work.