I'm going to be able to live. Oh, The letter came innocuously enough like any other letter before it.

A featureless white envelope surrounded it and it took

only thoughtless moments to tear it apart to free the contents inside.

Expecting the bills or spam your letterboxes become accustomed to, your eyes noticed

not the many oddities at first, instead it took a moment

of inspection.

It was a piece of paper with handwritten text on it.

You won't even aware people still wrote things on paper with a pen, but here stood the testament to the age-old ways ever

still dying. It would almost be beautiful if not for the fact that the words

stroked across the single piece of paper were filled with equal parts ink and venom. No not venom of that belonging to a snake,

spider or some other dastardly creature of ill-renown. Instead it was the venom of spite and hate.

The venom of a man scorned. Words filled with vitriol, loathing, insanity. Sentences filled with threats and danger. The promise of a future where pain would be the thing promised. You put the letter down,

immediately terrified, deep down into the pit of your very being. You've never known

such direct hatred. And you feel so very unsafe and victimized.

You know not of who wrote the letter, you feel as if you only understand one thing, their intent.

They seem to not like you very much and wish to do you some level of harm and that understanding terrifies you.

The letters don't stop there. They continue to arrive over the next few weeks,

continuously until you cannot take it one day further.

Suddenly in your sleep-deprived anxiety-ridden state you find a beacon of hope

born from an admittedly simple idea, an escape.

It's simple you think.

You can escape the letters by moving. By being someone else, by taking the shape of another.

...