#ak.writings

My dearest Jonathan Harker,

I thought this was what you wanted.

I was willing to give you everything.

You could’ve been my content little pet.

Why do you insist upon leaving me?

Why must you be so ungrateful?

We could’ve been so happy together.

As much as I’d love to tear you limb from limb due to your incompetence, I could never lay a finger upon you.

You’re my prized possession—you piqued my interest when I first met you. There’s something so unique and special about you.

I would love to keep you forever.

We could go wherever you want—together. As long as you don’t leave. As long as you are mine.

I want to hate you. After all, you’ve betrayed me gravely. I spoiled you, did I not? You could’ve been my princess—my bride.

It’s not as if I want to lock you up in a glass box for eternity. I would allow as many freedoms as I could for you.

So why did you leave?

What could I have done differently?

I wanted you to be mine. You were perfect.

I should’ve kept a closer eye on you.

I know I shouldn’t have been so lenient and trustworthy with you, yet—

I felt I could’ve built some sort of trust or bond between us.

I thought maybe we had something.

I’m sorry that I scared you.

I am a monster after all.

I can promise you that I’d never purposely hurt you.

Can I really be blamed for any sort of self defense though?

The fact that I’m not human is off-putting, isn’t it?

I can pretend to be human if it would make you happy.

I thought I was doing well initially, but you can only pretend to be human for so much and for so long.

Although it would kill me, I’d allow you to be yourself.

It would warm me to be able to turn you so we could be together forever.

Existence can be painful and lonely however, so I can understand your objection.

If being human is what you desire, then so be it. Nevertheless, I will still try to plead and convince you otherwise.

I know we love in different ways, but don’t you think it’s cruel to claim I cannot love?

I don’t feel the same way you do, I know.

I am unable to.

However, I too can love.

Even without the physical feelings and warmth inside.

I can love through my actions and thoughts.

I can love through my dedication and loyalty.

Is this not also love?

Why must I be loveless for my lack of emotional depth?

It is not as if I choose to feel nothing.

I am cold and numb, and I know I can be selfish and vain—

but I want to put aside my vanity for you.

You are worthy of my time and attention, so why not accept it?

I am willing to learn to love you.

So allow me in.

Won’t you invite me into your heart?

Yours Truly,

Count Dracula.

Sorry Is Just a Word

Sorry is just a word.

A vapid and feckless word, it is shallow and empty.

It’s the needy egotist that already has plenty.

Sorry is just a word.

It’s an empty shell, an empty box; alluring to promises, but only full of lies and pity.

The same dreadful feeling of walking alone in a vacant city.

Sorry is just a word.

It parades around your mind with various instruments of pain and false hope.

The same burning sensation as climbing up a never ending rope.

Sorry is just a word.

It hides behind a mask of continuity and freedom with its traps laid out just for you.

Veiling your face with a mask of lies, how can you really know what’s true?

Sorry is just a word.

It’s a vacant parking lot, a painful reminder of lost potential.

An archaic concept, no longer essential.

Sorry is just a word.

It pretends to be something it’s not, only to strike once you’re blinded.

Leaving its mark scarring down your back, so whenever you gaze into your reflection, you’ll be reminded.

Sorry isn’t just a word, it’s an apology neither.

It takes up the precious space of sincerity and raw honesty.

Stinging, like the noxious scent of burning cedar.

Sorry isn’t sorry, sorry isn’t anything at all.

Sorry is an empty room, stripped of everything—nothing but stray nails hanging upon its walls.

Sorry isn’t sorry.

Sorry acts as if it cares, when it is only there for itself.

Left to rot and decay into the fragments of time, the only thing left to hold onto is yourself.

Sorry is only there to do its job and then leave.

Sorry is the hitman, sorry has no obligation to you nor does it care to fulfill any one of your needs.

Sorry is just a word, and that’s all it will ever be.

A pitiful and selfish word that is so pathetic to think that it could ever amount to an apology.

Will you at least love me in my death? Will I finally mean something then?

They can’t even say no. It’s all so vague, despite claiming to value directness. I can see what they won’t say, though.

They’re not even afraid of losing me. They jumped right to “it’s okay if you block me” and all that jazz. I didn’t even say I would nor wanted to—I just wanted a mature conversation about where we stand in the relationship, and what the future looks like for us. I just wanted to communicate my thoughts and feelings for once, rather than avoiding issues—I dreaded and avoided it because I anticipated the worst.

But maybe the worst isn’t even a harsh and resounding “no”. Because at least that’s closure. I’d say the worst is mediocrity and nonchalantness; it’s apathy and distance. You don’t wish to lose me nor keep me—I am not important enough for them to make that distinction. I’m not special enough to be on their mind like that. I’m simply another person, another character, in their life that will come-and-go. That’s the worst, if you ask me: to mean so little that it doesn’t matter if you stay or go, because you can always be replaced. Trying so hard to make an impact and to make things work, only to be met with one-sidedness and disconnect. How can I be so unimportant after everything I’ve done? After being told I’m the first to do something for them? After being considered the person you talk to the most? So, it’s as I suspected—I’m just a placeholder until you get what you actually want? You couldn’t even have the decency to be honest or let me down? You had to lie and withhold information for me to find out on my own? You want the attention, but you do not care for the effort. Yet I know you’ll whine and complain once I leave—it will all be “my fault” in your eyes. That’s how little I mean to you—I am there to push the story in its direction, but I’m discarded after the character arc; I am there for progression like a cog in a wheel. Sure, I help push things along, but you can always replace me, can’t you?

I had to find out on my own that their distance was due to them pursuing someone else—and this isn’t even the first time I’ve been in this situation. Yet I fell for the same trap all over again? They were pursuing someone else for months apparently—it all lines up with when they started to become more distant and talk to me less. Yet they could never tell me; I had to find out on my own? This person of course rejected and abandoned them despite claiming things were “mutual”. You think I lied when I said I would stay and would be perfect for you? That I’d do anything? Yet here you are, being an ungrateful bitch. How can you make yourself the victim once you eventually push me away. Remember: I am not the one that left in the end, you simply kicked me to the curb yourself. Me crawling away to find someone who actually values me is not me “abandoning you”. You’ve done it to yourself, frankly. Even after everything I’ve endured for you and from you. I never had to do any of that for you, yet I did. If you’re this content with losing me for people who don’t even understand you, then that is your lesson to learn on your own. I cannot force you to understand something I’ve already had to learn the hard way. I would bid you farewell, but I feel you don’t deserve it. It is your choice to drift away from me despite everything I’ve done to keep you close. Even after I molded myself into what you wanted, after studying what you like in a person. After everything I’ve done to get better and attune myself to your needs. These are the thanks I get? And yet you will still find a way to use my resentment as a way to posture your victim complex. It’s always my fault in the end, isn’t it? It’s my fault that I can be perfect and unfeeling and altruistic, right? But it’s okay if you make mistakes—of course, of course it is; you’ve always been the victim, after all. And I’ve always been wrong. That’s how it’s always been.