The Nightmares Come While I'm Awake

To Jane,

Everyone else is doing it, so I figure it is time that I give in. Previously I did not quite address these editorials to you, but as you are now the clear impetus for a murder on top of three suicides, I figured I should open up the lines of communication.

Why? I guess that’s the question that I care about most. The hows are irrelevant at this point, given that no one has the courage to seek them out. Only you can say why. What makes it worthwhile? Are you so special that you not only buck the natural course but also compel the world to follow you into madness?

A girl who was doing well in university gave up her life to become part of your grand narrative. She lies in the same room as you, afflicted with the same defiance of nature as you. She’s not alone. After her you drew in another smart young woman, and before them a man who worked in the morgue succumbed to the same unnatural urge that seeped into his flesh.

Now, there is a lunatic stalking the city. Instead of killing himself to join you, he has killed. There will be more bodies. The police are doing what they do best and closing ranks, but the murderer performed violent acts for you before the killing—including assaulting a police officer. And he isn’t the only one. This John Stag—yes, I know about his letters—is a banal and trite lunatic, hoping to become interesting. That’s what you are dangling in front of his face.

So, Jane, I ask you again, why? If you are all that they say you are, why are you doing this? I do not expect an answer. I think you are a corpse, infected with something that could be extracted from your remains if one tried. However, to many you are at least a saint. It is so rare that one gets to correspond with a saint directly, and I do not think that it is too much to ask for some sign or vision. Even a personal one would do. In case you don’t read the paper, I’ve sent this as well.

Understand, I’m not blaming you, or rather not blaming the person that once occupied that beautiful shell. I am simply curious to see if perhaps I’m wrong. Perhaps your body does not rot for some mystic reason. All I need is for you to tell me that I am wrong in some way. I’m not asking you to walk across a swimming pool or change any water in to wine. Given how you seem to be inspiring lunatics and inviting suicides, it would seem no trouble at all for you to give me one dream of a convincing nature.

Eagerly Awaiting Your Reply,
Arthur Manx
Editor