It was the eighth ‘love letter’ I’d received that week…for what seems like no apparent reason, an anonymous person has continued to shove letters upon letters in my mailbox. They seemed to have been placed there personally, as the envelope was only blank. It smelled highly of a cologne that stripped the soberness of your senses.
The sender labeled himself as an admirer, and if I needed to refer to him by a certain title, to simply call him “D.”
His writing was masculine, calligraphic, intriguing. Even while the handwriting spelt out blood chilling threats, I couldn’t say I didn’t have an interest in D. An interest that ran skin deep — as deep as he described every stab wound he would give absolutely anything for to tear on my flesh.
Which is why I chose to keep the authorities out of this.

I’m no one of interest. In fact, I try to keep my head low most of the time. Though I hate to admit this to myself, the way others observe and pick me apart with their eyes, I’d guess it means I’m attractive, in some way, shape, or form. My features such as my eyes and hair are dark and sharp. My skin is fair, and my body is toned and slim. I’m young, but the way I act, speak, and observe the world is not.
Giving any further description…well, I’d just prefer to leave some to the imagination. It’s always so much more fun that way.

My love letter, I placed behind every other letter, bill, and all that jazz sent through snail mail. Most of it was shit.
As I stepped through the door of my house, in which I lived alone, that aroma hit me like a wall. It enveloped and teased me, pulled and played with my senses. That damned cologne…and I was quite sure the love letter hidden behind the crapload of junk mail — its scent wasn’t nearly so damn strong.
A blank, pale red envelope lay on the blackwood table. A single, elegant ribbon was tied around it. As I set the mail down and gently picked up the envelope, I turned it at every angle.