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Dear Megan

By GiGi Gaczewski

Artwork by Lucy McClellan


Dear Megan,

I’m sorry. I only can hope that you understand, and you’ll let me come home. It’s a three-hour flight to my brother’s place, and that gives me three hours to explain myself and beg for forgiveness. It doesn’t matter to me if you don’t fully trust me again, I just need you to accept what’s happened. I’m actually in tears right now. The other passengers are looking at me strangely, and I don’t care. I love you more than anything. I want us to last, I want us to have kids one day, and I want us to be like my favorite fairytale. Do you remember when we first started dating, and we would snuggle up and watch Cinderella? I feel as if I am a prince, with no beautiful princess. Lost. Do you think Gary is going to make me this happy? He lives in an apartment. An apartment, Megan. Do you see me in an apartment? I’ve always hated Gary since we were kids, even though mom seemed to love him best. Anyways, I digress; please let me come back home. Let me explain myself and apologize.

I’m sorry I got you a chocolate cake for your birthday. I know you don’t like chocolate but I didn’t want you to be upset about not having a cake. I drove to the store, and on my way there some old bag cut me off. I was angry to begin with. Then, when I walked into the store, they asked me if I wanted a free sample. A free fucking sample? Do I look like someone who would take something for free? Megan, you know me. I’m an important asset to the auto company, and you of all people should know that. I have more money than I know what to do with. I told the lady to go shove it up her ass, and then walked toward the back of the store to an assortment of beautiful, decorated, ornate cakes with little flowers delicately fashioned out of fondant. There were cakes with small faces on them that seemed to be mocking me with their small black eyes. All too expensive. I went to the more reasonable cakes, and guess what? No vanilla. It was all that stupid grocery store’s fault. Not mine.

I’m sorry I threw your wallet into the river. That night when you got upset with me over the cake, it just sent me into this blind rage and I’m sorry. You made me angry. You told me that you loved vanilla and not chocolate but you’d eat it anyway before my hands started to shake, almost as if there were an earthquake pounding in my very core. I’m sorry I threw the book across the room. I told you I couldn’t take it anymore and I left– with your wallet. You didn’t know, but I wanted really bad to get back at you—and what did you say? You’d eat it anyway? How dare you say that to me? You should have said that you loved it, and then maybe your wallet wouldn’t have gotten thrown into the river.

I’m sorry I crashed your car into the daycare down the street. As I’m sure you remember, the next morning after the fight from the night before, I had asked if I could borrow your car. You even dared to ask what happened to mine, and I replied that I got a flat tire last night while driving and it was in the shop. Then you asked what happened to all of my old classic cars, — my precious babies that I love more than my own life. I called you a silly bitch and said that I seriously can’t take those out of storage and drive them around, they’re only for show. I grabbed your keys off the counter while you screamed something or other to me as I walked toward the driveway. I backed out of the driveway, started driving toward the company headquarters, and that’s when I remembered what you had screamed at me. You screamed that I was the worst. Yeah, and I made a hard right, right into the daycare. I got out of the car and walked away, throwing your keys behind me as if I were Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson in an action movie, walking away from an explosion.

I’m sorry you drove me to the point that I had to fuck your best friend. I walked to Charlotte’s house. I rang the doorbell and sat on her front porch furniture and waited like a perfect gentleman. She came to the door, finally, and I asked, why the hell did it take you so long? She replied that she was just feeding her cats and that’s when I remembered why I hated her. The cats. Megan, you know I hate cats. I hate all animals. I hate our dog, Mr. Jingles, so much. He’s so loud and annoying. Cats are worse. Their screeching makes me want to vomit six times over. Anyway, I asked if I could come in. She asked why I was here, and I looked her dead in the eye with my signature charm and said, “why, aren’t you married yet?” She looked very flustered, so I shoved my way in. The way she looked at me reminded me of what it would look like if you stuck a fork into an electrical outlet. Her eyes bulged in a very unattractive way—her inference, maybe, she’d call you. “There’s was no need for that,” I said, “we’re friends.” Then I asked if she were still a virgin. She turned a shade of red some would call vermillion, and I’d merely call ugly. I shoved her into what I assume was her bedroom, though it looked more like a closet, and we had sex. Basically, this is all your fault, Megan. All yours, in fact, you should probably be apologizing to me.

And I’m sorry you made me kill Wilson. I buttoned up my shirt and pants while Charlotte stared at me with eyes that reminded me of a fish. Her eyes are really disturbing; you need to find more attractive friends. I asked her who Wilson was. She stuttered and responded, “He’s the ex.” I asked her where he lived and she told me. With my signature charm working again, I asked her if she had any guns in the house. She kept staring straight ahead at the wall and responded that her grandfather had an old gun cabinet that’s still in the basement. I ran down, grabbed one, yelled goodbye on the way out, then stalked out the door. My next task on the to-do list was to visit your ex, Wilson, he was the one you dated before me, right? I can never remember, and I don’t think you ever told me actually. I think I had to find out by reading your texts. But why’d you make me do that? I just wanted to know what was going on in your life, and now you’re texting this guy Wilson? During the long walk to his apartment, I just kept turning the gun over and over in my hand. When I got there, finally, I knocked on the door, and shoved the gun in my pants. The door happened to be unlocked so—what else—I waltzed right in. He was sitting at his kitchen table, and when he saw me, he stood up and asked who the fuck I was. I very calmly stated, my name is Jim, and that I’m your husband.

“Why are you here,” he asked, and again– with my signature charm, — I very calmly stated again that I was just here to talk. He offered me a seat, but I shot him and walked out. Sweetheart, maybe if you weren’t texting your ex, he wouldn’t be dead.

I hope that can see that, if anything, you’re the cruel one here Megan. All I wanted was for us to be happy together, but you had to go mess it all up.

Oh, and I’m sorry you made me put Mr. Jingles in the microwave. Do I need to explain myself for this one? You wanted the dog, Megan. I was the one who took care of it. You’d cajole me into taking it out for walks against my fucking will. I hated that dog– the way it would stare at me with those horribly big brown eyes and bark. Forgive me, you know you want to. I hope it makes you happy that he barked the whole time he was in the microwave. You’re the bitch here.

Love, Jim


Published inFiction

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