Friday 9th May, 1941

I don’t know what to write. I’ve been staring at an empty page for days. What is there to say?

He left me here.

It feels like I am rotting from the heart out. My arms and legs and mouth continue to soldier on, but my insides are festering and mouldy, writhing with maggots. How I wish I could cry. How I wish I could scream and shout, but those are pastimes of the living.

I got the letter two days ago. It was waiting on the doorstep when I got home with Glynis. We were positively exuberant as we’d managed, between us, to break that devilish cipher. And there it was.

It’s all so clear now. I last saw Rick on Sunday. It was a bright and sunny day and so we went up to the lake. I fell asleep on our picnic blanket, Du Maurier open on my chest. I awoke and found him gone. I looked up and saw him at the water’s edge, skimming pebbles across the surface. Circles rippled, and I sensed he was brooding, perhaps aware we’d both have to acknowledge his improving health soon.

Now I know his thoughts weren’t nearly so noble. I watched him awhile. I wonder if that was when he knew. When he decided to leave me here. I suppose that ache he felt in his chest wasn’t love after all. It was guilt. Guilt: cold, black and greasy.

He calls me his beloved, but how could he love me and be so ruthless? I could have no more left Rick Sawyer than I could leave my own body, and yet he managed it. I read his letter once, and thought it must be some horrific nightmare. I read it twice and it felt like I was in a novel. Only on the third read did it truly sink in.

He has gone.

And with him went my spirit.