If you are reading this, congratulations are in order. You have made it to the end of your life. In retrieving this letter you may have noticed that you are restrained, with the exception of the movement necessary to grab this letter off of your nightstand. You may have also noticed there is a selection of weapons well out of your reach. The reason you cannot reach them is because they are not for you. Well, they are, but in a different sense. It can also be assumed that you are asking yourself the basic five at this point; who, what, where, when, and how? That is reasonable. Don’t worry. Everything will be cleared up for you soon enough. Keep reading.

Conceivably, you weren’t always this complete waste of skin. It is possible that you had a decent childhood with loving parents in a nice home with a picket fence. Or, maybe you became the way you are because you did not have those things. Maybe Mom didn’t hug you enough. Maybe Dad hugged you too much. Only you know the reason why you turned out the way you did. The reason is inconsequential, however. All that matters is that you became the monster you have become. I’ve waited fourteen years for this very special moment. When you are ready turn onto your other side. That way, you can see the eyes of the person that is about to kill you.

Well, hello. Do you recognize me? This is a blast from the past... There are a few things you probably did not count on fourteen years ago. Did you know if had been that long? I did. I have counted every single day, every single minute, all of them leading up to this very moment. You didn’t count on new technologies helping to process old evidence. You didn’t count on that little kid spending years looking for you. You didn’t think he’d find out you were guilty of killing his sister after you had your way with her in this broken down shack you call a home. You didn’t assume that little boy would grow up and work for the police department. And, most importantly at the moment, you didn’t assume he’d be the one to review the evidence once it could be processed. You sick son of a bitch!

It stands to reason that a piece of shit like you may have wronged a lot of people. That being said, you are probably not sure about exactly who is standing in front of you. Who am I? That is the mystery, isn’t it? After all, we both know who you are. YOU are the motherfucker who took my sister from me, and now, it is payback time.

You are wearing what you freaky people refer to as a “ball gag.” You can, “Mmmm, mmmm, mmmm,” all you want. See, much like your life, your words are meaningless here. You look confused; let’s see if we can clarify things for you.

On December 31^st 1985, you waited until my parents, your “friends,” left for a New Year’s Eve party, leaving my sister in charge of the house. You knew it would be hours until my parents would return. You knew the hide-a-key was by the back door and it was all you needed to gain entry into our home. The volume of the TV worked to your advantage as you crept through the kitchen. Dick Clark’s New Year’s Rockin’ Eve kept Tara and I glued to the television, allowing you to move around the house, unannounced. You waited until the ball dropped in New York City, almost as if you knew my sister would be tucking me in at that time. Since it was only ten o’clock in Oregon, you knew you would have at least three hours before Mom and Dad would be ringing in the New Year and heading home.

After Tara tucked me in, she went back to the couch in the living room. You poked your head into my room to make sure I was asleep. You thought that I was, but you were wrong. You were fortunate though. You didn’t allow your face to be seen. You hid, like the coward you are, behind a black ski mask. That is the only reason you have been allowed to live this long. Crippled with fear and only seven years old, I hid under the covers, silent and still. For years, I was forced to wonder if I had screamed, or ran, or did anything; would my sister still be here? For fourteen years, I have tortured myself with the what-ifs, the blame, and the shame. It’s been building up, but I am done with that now. Now, that all becomes your problem.

Tara’s body was found in Whispering Woods on New Year’s Day, 1986. Police investigated, but since she had made no enemies in her short life, and since my parents were honest and good people, there was no one we could think of that would want to bring harm to the her or our family. Hence, there were no real suspects and ultimately, the case went cold. DNA testing was in its infancy. The police collected samples from my sister’s body and the area where she was found. It took fourteen years, and one misstep, on your part, for the woods to finally whisper your name.

No doubt, your past has haunted you for years. This led to your battle with alcoholism, which led to your arrest for DUI when you wrecked your truck out on Route 20 a few years back. You denied the breathalyzer at the scene. However, since there was an accident involving injury, you had to submit to a blood panel. The result revealed much more than your blood alcohol content. Don’t you worry though; no one else is aware of the connection. You will not be arrested or brought up on charges. There will be no lengthy trial. Instead, you will be brought to justice the old fashioned way; an eye for an eye; a life for a life. Let’s get started, shall we?

You should make yourself comfortable, this may take some time. Chances are, you will die pretty quickly when you are shot in the head. That is not always the case and is completely dependent on which head takes the bullet.

You know that hurts. You can tell by your muffled screams that it does. This wound could be fatal, but it will take a good amount of pain and a good amount of time before that relief would come for you. Amazingly enough, that is only the second most painful place to be shot. You want to know what the most painful is? It’s said to be the kneecaps. You tell me.

Oh my! It looks like you are in exquisite pain. I am starting to feel a bit better though. You won’t have to suffer much longer. There is only one more surprise in store for you tonight. I had initially planned on torturing you with some of the instruments you noticed when you first regained consciousness. Fortunately, you had some acetone lying around. It gave me a much better idea.

They say the worst way to die is to be burned alive. If you want a fire to work quickly, acetone is for you. With an ignition temperature of 869 degrees, things get hot in a hurry. For your convenience, you and your bed sheets have been drenched in acetone. I do have a prior engagement that I need to be headed to soon, but I do have time for a cigarette before I go.