The letter was nailed to the door in stark proclamation.

I would ask that you take it upon yourself to one day stab me so I know if this pain is worse or less than a fatal wound.

I would forgive you both, of course, as you could torture me for years in the cruelest ways imaginable and my heart and soul would forever desire to be with you.

I cannot be without you.

I will cease to exist.

Your rejection of me would be a denial of my being. I would be a shell.

A shell without Eros, only Thanatos, the desire for death. Which, in hope for a quick end to unimaginable agony, assuredly it would quickly carry out. If not by its own hand then by its begging for your own merciful one.

Destroy the being you once taught to truly live, please, if you would thereafter deny her that wondrous life you presented her with.

He tore it from the door as he entered, and observed the quaking, quivering form of his tumultuously sleeping wife. The tears still dripping from her eyes.