Letters to a Funeral Parlor

Letters to a Funeral Parlor

To whom it may concern:

I am contacting you in order to make a request. I wish not for my wife to be buried six feet under in a wooden casket, to be eaten by maggots, to be disgraced but to be placed above ground in a glass casket for all to see. Burying is what you do to those who are dead, but my wife, my beautiful and eternal Annabel, is not dead. She is only sleeping. She has become my very own Snow White, and it seems fitting to treat her the same way the original one was treated. Annabel needs only just a kiss from her prince, and although it is very embarrassing to say, I am not her prince. I have kissed her cold body many times, and nothing has happened. Please, place her on display until someone comes to claim her. I only want my Annabel’s happiness (and body and love for me) to stay intact.


Sincerely,

E.A. Poe



To whom it may concern:

I am disappointed that you most vehemently denied my request, Mr. Caretaker. It was very simple if I recall it well, just a simple do not place my wife in a casket. I come to visit (and yes, even though you told me to never ever set foot in your establishment again, I came anyway. Love knows no boundaries so why should I observe them? Those dogs you call guards were fairly easy to take care of) and see my wife thrown haphazardly into a box. As I caressed her body, it felt so different. Her body, stiff and cold, was drawn up into a ball almost. A stench of supreme awfulness emanated from her. My beautiful, beautiful Annabel disgraced. I could not feel the love anymore. I think I am beginning to hate you, Mr. Caretaker.

Hatefully Yours,

E.A. Poe



To whom it may concern:

I admit, my patience is wearing thin with you, Mr. Caretaker. Does my matter not concern you? Should I change my greeting into: To whom it may bother? Did you not understand my letters? Is your little pea brain unable to comprehend even a small request such as this? Then, again, I do not blame you. Not many understood, especially someone as dimwitted as you seem, Annabel and I and what we had. Annabel had this idea that true love, our love, could transcend the body and even the mind. Stupid, incestuous, people called us but we could not control who we fell in love with as much as we could control the sun. It was all the better she could marry her cousin rather than a stranger. Love. I keep saying that word but do you know what it means? While writing these letters, I imagine you as a stout, obese, old man. A lonely old man who had never experienced the joy of love, of simply being with another person. I imagine that you are still a virgin, but really, that’s irrelevant, isn’t it? Nonetheless, I realized how lonely you must be, and I take pity. Poor Mr. Caretaker, we are now one and the same. I am alone. That is why I took up sweet Annabel’s idea of love transcending all and requested that she be placed on display. At least respect the dead’s-er, sleeping’s wishes. Take pity, and take care of my Annabel.

One and the Same,

E.A. Poe



To whom it may concern:

A wife in a jar. The idea would almost be entertaining if I could get the idea of murdering you out of my head. How dare you, you devil, you b****rd, incinerate, my beautiful, my lovely, my eternal Annabel? I cannot hold her anymore, kiss her enticing, full lips anymore, hear her laugh of tinkling bell anymore! All I asked was for you to wait and take care of her, you inconsiderate, imprudent, little caretaker. Maybe the request wasn’t as simple as I thought. Maybe I shouldn’t have thought so highly of you, you and your ignorant little mind. No…I must express myself whereas you could understand. I am a writer, Mr. Caretaker, did you know that? I wrote this a few days after my wife arrived: “Ashes to ashes; thou who lays a hand upon my love will face a vengeance worthy of h*ll.” It is your warning, Mr. Caretaker. Be prepared.

Waiting and Watching,

E.A. Poe





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