The Object Of Desire

Dear Cynthia;

You do not know me but I know you. I know you very well.

My name is Dagobert and I am a shapeshifter. I was born with a most peculiar ability to transform myself into any shape I please.

When I first met you, you were homeless. You’d run away from your abusive stepfather and your uncaring mother and were begging outside of the Metro.

It was then; whilst I was a slightly torn leaflet for a communist rally blowing in the wind, that I first noticed you and fell instantly in love with you.

It was also then that you discovered that rare ancient coin in the upturned bowler hat you used to use for a begging bowl but that was no coin, Cynthia, that was me.

Soon after, you sold your precious find in that antiques shop near the Musee d’ Orsay and pocketed a thousand francs, then I transformed myself from coin into street pigeon and flew out of the antique shop back to you.

Many times I performed that same trick for you. Many times, I transformed myself into some rare and fabulous artifact that you just happened to stumble across. Surely you don’t think it was just chance. Many times you sold me for a fortune until now, instead of begging on some filthy street corner, you are a woman of means living in an expensive 18th century mansion.

I did all that for you, sweet Cynthia and now you owe me. You owe me your heart and your hand in marriage and I will have them.

………………………………………………………………………..

Cynthia threw the letter onto the roaring fire in her old hearth. It had been written by some lunatic, obviously; some stalker. Perhaps a customer from the days when she’d worked as a prostitute.

But then, she heard the letter scream.