Letter to Dorian by Edward Armstrong

I am a villain of my times; I wish I’d done it differently. I care little for how I should have acted in such a situation, but I know my reaction was unnecessary. I am hunted by a pack of vicious dogs like a hare on an estate in Southern England during the enchanting season of freezing woods.
Even the elegance of my reasoning is no use in defence against these mindless brutes. Perhaps if the mirror hadn’t lied to me with the alluring promises of glory, I may have seen the waterfall of darkness which had consumed my intentions. I once sought to fulfil my vendetta with noble intentions, however, in reflection, I see that the excessive indignation which had manifested inside me had clouded my planning.
I look up to see the steam seeping silently from the ancient bathroom door which hangs precariously from several loose rusted hinges which could do with some oil, not exactly my cup of tea. I turned back to my diary as my hazelnut brown hair, still wet from the shower, swung over my shoulder and rested comfortingly on the warmth of my chest.
I recall the seemingly sinister evergreen forest, which my bedroom window looked out on, swaying furiously as it was battered with the ferocity of a Northern gust. This phenomenon inspired the crime which has brought me the punishment of separation from you. If I had known of the consequences, my actions would have been slightly more controlled. I feel them looking over my shoulder, spying my every move. For a crime as little as accidental murder I would have thought they would consider granting me clemency.
My fingers felt smooth as I rubbed them together in a vain attempt at creating warmth between them. The wood stacked fire was on the other side of my ridiculously neat room. “I can’t stand clutter,” announced the queer Indian bell boy as I’d arrived, “it gives me an unbearable desire to give things space.” I wasn’t going to argue; he seemed nice and didn’t ask for a tip so I’ll leave my clothes well spaced.
“Cold bloody murder!” they had barked at me mercilessly. Fear engulfed my very soul at that moment as I fled swiftly out the window into the freezing liquid abyss of the Thames. A simple brief misunderstanding with a madman which results in the slip of a dagger into his heart and one is condemned, how very nonsensical. Perhaps, as you had suggested Dorian, I should have patiently awaited his departure from the tavern before I fulfilled my vendetta.
My numerous shoes on the other hand... well let’s hope he doesn’t feel a need to organise. I sipped my warm English tea gingerly, like a young man tasting his first glass of wine with his parents; I despise hot tea, but if I have biscuits I won’t complain. Not many biscuits in this town though, so a good time to quietly protest as I see fit.
I had been too engaged by the prospect of contentment that I became lost in a sea of emotions as I planned the abhorrent deed. It is the times Dorian: if I had performed this act before the dawn of civilisation, I can assure you that no one would have batted a lid. Perhaps I should have done as Brutus and Cassius did with Caesar; a group of assassins is much more likely to retain its innocence. If I had waited longer, perhaps at a time of sombre mourning or exuberant celebration for the country, society would have been much too distracted to notice. Now you know the unbiased story. Dear Dorian, I entreat you, therefore, to aid me in proving my innocence; your word is preeminent among those who hold the power to free me of this wretched fear.
Yours lovingly as always,
Sibyl xoxoxox

Edward is a well-travelled student, he excels in academics and in the sporting arena. His passions are Jesus, rugby and writing. He hopes to be a psychologist in his adult years.