K09C to A82W

14th day of the 5th sector, year 10 of the Free Calendar

You keep telling me you haven't got much longer. But I beat you to it. Probably the only thing I've ever beaten you at.

I hate you for this. Well, you'd expect that. But it's just – you know everything, Aurea. You're the most fucking smug always-right bitch the world over. And those summers, when we lay in the rough grass smoking lobelia, the volcano moments, the seconds and seconds and millions upon billions of seconds that we spent together. I think, did you know then? It's hard to imagine you as a kid, as innocent, as not knowing.

You should have stuck a knife in me then. Why didn't you, Aurea? The first time we met. The first time we talked about changing the world. You should have done it. And what about that day in the rainy season, when torrents pounded all night long and you couldn't go home. Yes, there were lots of days like that, but you know the day I'm talking about. We were alone in the house. Pressed together in that tiny bed. These things happen. Although with us it only happened that once.

I can't even remember who started it. And I'd expect to remember that, because it would make the whole thing go differently. If you started it, it would be part of a plan. You'd have cupped my chin towards yours, and kissed me viciously, knowing I was never going to say no. You would have buried your face in me. You would have loved having that much power.

If I started it, it would have been a surrender. An act of utter desperation. Wanting and wanting what you can't have – and then something snaps.

I can't remember. I only remember that it was the only time I ever got a response from you, could make an expression appear on your face, make you cry out without meaning to. I would rather not write this down. I would rather not admit how much satisfaction that gave me, that I still think about it, because it only proves that you win. And making you even smugger than you already are would be pretty tragic for my last action on earth.

I hate that I am spending my last days writing to you.

I remember that it was dark, and that I couldn't see you, only feel you. Actually I think I must have started it – because now I do remember reaching out in the darkness, ready to pretend I was asleep, had moved by mistake. Yes. That's how it happened. But then you took control. You weren't surprised. You were the one that kissed me.

And what I'm saying is – you must have known then. That's you. You know things. You probably had it all planned out already. So how dare you go on like we did? Why didn't you bring a knife to bed, spear my neck with it? Why didn't you blow a ball of fire into my mouth when our lips touched and burn me alive from the inside? How dare you – how dare you let me go on, for years and years, and wait, and then kill me like this, at a distance. You owe it to me to do it yourself. I wonder if you'll even come to watch, or if you'll hide in your office.

You could have let me die young, passionate, and totally unaware of what the world's like. If you couldn't give me anything else, you could have given me that.

Aurea, I'm tired and I'm bored and I'm in love with you, and in a week I'm going to be executed. I thought when it got to this point I wouldn't care any more, that I'd finally be free of everything. But I just feel exhausted. And terrified, of course.

Will you write back, I wonder? Or will this be enough to make even you too ashamed to answer?

- Kilburn