letter to natalie

[sating]

---

Natalie,

This letter may not reach you. I realize this upon writing it, because I already know. I have written these letters with the certainty that I will die, and because of the Sheriff's always forthcoming nature, I at least know it will come from a woman. It is nothing more than my guess and intuition, but I believe it will come from your hands. At times, you have reminded me of another young woman I held very dear because of the strength I’ve seen in you. There was blood on her hands. I see the capacity for you to bear the same. After all, you fought your way from the very gates of Hell (or so I would assume, considering the descriptions I have heard), and that does not come without a great want to survive.

However, are you killing me because you want to survive? Or are you killing me because you find that I've betrayed your trust?

Neither matters. My blood will still be on your hands. Embrace it. I will not begrudge you for my passing. But I can tell you that because this letter may not reach you. You will have awakened wrath, not in me, but in Will. And for that, I find I must offer you thanks. You will not appreciate it, but his wrath is an exquisitely beautiful thing.

Though in the event that I am mistaken, I will say this: I hope that you will play once again. You may look upon our conversations with scorn by now regardless, but you should not. It is my earnest wish that you will return to music. There is little more tragic than an artist losing their art. You have been transformed by what has transpired here, and you will never be the same for it. Take it not as tragedy, but strength. You have overcome much. You can continue to do so. Those are my final words to you as a psychiatrist, because through this letter, it seems safe to say that I can no longer consider you my patient regardless of the circumstances that bring you to this moment.

Perhaps I will see you soon. But until then--

Best Wishes,
Hannibal Lecter