Letter to Hayley

To Hayley,
 
Your words are like daggers in my back. To hear them from someone who calls me their friend is a cruelty I did not expect. You speak of rebuilding, of anger, of purpose, yet tell me, what use has the rot for the bloom? What comfort does the frost offer the seed it kills?
 
Do I have to remind you, Hayley, that I did not return in the guise of your friend, but that of a servant? You speak to me as though I still belong to that light, as though the name Ileas carries warmth instead of shadow.
 
You ask why I returned to you if I knew what I was, and if that is true, whether I was ever truly your friend. But let me switch the perspective: what kind of friend are you if you direct your anger toward those closest to you in a time of need? What purpose has your anger when gentleness and unity are all that might keep us from breaking apart? I have lost a family once, Hayley, and I will engulf the world in darkness before I lose another.
 
You ask why I came, knowing what I am. The answer is simple: because ruin does not choose where it walks, it merely follows the scent of what it once loved. Perhaps I wished to see if there was still a place in the world that did not wither at my touch. You have given me my answer.
 
You call me self-loathing. Perhaps you are right. But I have learned that denial is a fool’s kindness. I have worn many faces, the victim, the fool, the repentant. None fit as well as the villain. It is a role that asks for nothing but honesty, and in honesty, I find peace.
 
If my presence brings death, then let me be death’s herald. If I am the shadow that chokes the light, then at least I will know what I am. It’s better to know ones place in the story than to foolishly believe one was meant for another role. Do not waste your anger on me, Hayley. Anger is for those who still believe they can change the ending. If you want anger, you can have it, but make sure you can control it, lest it cast its evil eye upon you instead of those you mean to strike.
 
I have seen the last page of my story, and it is written in thorns.
And yet, even knowing that, I would still stand beside you, if only to make sure the darkness takes me before it touches those I see as my family.
Can you say the same?
 
With the warmth of the dying sun,
Ileas