My dear husband,
You wonít ever get to read this letter. Youíll be dead, and Iíll be long gone, by the time this is found.
Iím writing this in the office overlooking the emerald waves of the Pacific Ocean. Behind me, the Californian hills are covered in flames and smoke. Iím wearing the pastel summer dress you like so much. The heels that belong to it hurt my feet, so Iím barefoot. But none of this matters anyway.
Iíve been tired of this relationship for a long time. It wasnít even you, at first. Ever since I married you, the press has been preying on us like vultures, wondering which one of us will fall dead first. Of course, it was going to be me, the beautiful young woman who would succumb to the burden of fame. A gold digger who ODíed and was found floating in the swimming pool. And for just a moment, it seemed like that was exactly how it was going to be.
But then I found out about the other girls.
There were 13 of them, I counted. They live all over LA. They're models, and actresses, and background dancers. Every time you were supposed to be in the studio, you were with one of them. Every night I prayed that you would come home safe and that I wouldn't have to find you in a hospital bed, you were lying in their beds instead.
I can forgive the cocaine and alcohol abuse. Hell, I can even forgive all the money you waste on diamond doorknobs and golden guns. But I can't forgive this.
I didn't marry you for money, or for fame. I married you because I wanted to make you a better person. You're a great artist, Dom. But I guess that I'm no savior. And now I know that you're not a person that you save. You're someone that you run away from.
Even better, you're someone you have to get rid of. I know just the way.
You and your bitches gave me a way out. I bought a truck and I'm emptying the safes. It's not as if you'll need that money, anyway. Maybe I'll head East. Maybe I'll cross the border to Mexico. Who knows? You're not the worst thing that has happened to me, but I'll make sure that I'm the worst thing that has ever happened to you.
I called your favorite hotel in Venice Beach, the one you've been to with me, and then all of your other girls. They said you just left. By now, your helicopter must almost be here.
I'm taking that stupid platinum grenade launcher, the one you got for your last birthday. I'm going to stand on the balcony and shoot your helicopter out of the sky. Finally, I'll get to see you go up in flames. It was just a matter of time, really. Hollywood legends like you never grow old. They just burn up.
And when they do, nothing remains.
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