Raymond's Regret

CW: gore (abuse, murder, infant death); mental health

Maybe more people like me are out there, but who knows for sure. I spend my days lurking local garage and estate sales, looking for old journals and anything that looks like it's lived a life. Whenever I leave my cold, quiet home, I feel this surge of energy to go find something worth learning more about. Whether it's an old book, a name and date written in the front and children's scribblings covering every page. An old camcorder or computer hard drive the last owner forgot to wipe. Even a box full of old birthday cards, haphazardly thrown onto the sale table by the grandchild of a sentimental old lady.

Last week at an estate sale that boasted the age of their goods, I discovered a box of pictures and a notebook sold together. The little old man who was running the sale exaggerated the importance of buying both to me. “Please dear, they can’t be apart. Don’t separate them.” 

The guy freaked me out, but I handed him a ten dollar bill from my back pocket and made my way home, fulfilled with my one purchase of the day. Once closing and locking the door, I placed the box and notebook on the table, thinking I’d get to it later. But I couldn’t stop thinking about the little old man and his words. He was so insistent about them being sold together. Why is it so important that they stay in the same place? He acted like they were a bonded pair of pets you’re trying to adopt from a shelter. Like they would die without each other. 

I couldn’t wait any longer, I found a seat at my kitchen table and pulled the box in front of me. It had the word “photos” scripted across the front in faded sharpie, which almost bled into the yellowing white paper box. I lifted a small piece of tape that kept the lid attached to the rest of the box, mentally preparing myself for anything I could possibly see. The photos were placed in the box upside down. I checked to see if I’d opened the box the wrong way, but no, the photos were just upside down. The top photo (or bottom?) had writing on the back; “Lottie and Raymond, 1971.” I turned it over and looked at it. Seems like a normal photo. Just a bit grainy. A man and a woman hand-in-hand standing in front of a blue two story house. The woman looked pregnant, assumedly very far along. Maybe Raymond and Lottie were married. 

The next photo in the stack had written on the back, “Lottie Jenkins, 36 weeks.” It was another photo of the woman, but just her, Raymond was nowhere in sight. Her pregnant belly was on full display, her protruding navel strangely detailed, despite the photo being 50 years old. Maybe cameras weren’t as bad as I thought back then. The background of the photo makes it look like it was taken in a bedroom. Where she was sitting looking like a made bed and shagged carpet peaking out of the corner of the photo. 

The second to last photo. Nothing written on the back. Just a red or brown looking substance in small streaks. I turned it over to see what looked like a baby. But horribly disfigured. Eyes squeezed shut, the face full of what looked like strange gouges of missing flesh. And seemingly soaked in blood. I was unsure if the blood belonged to the baby itself or the mother. I quickly turned over the photo and put it down, despite it already being burned into my memory. 

The last photo did have writing on the back. “I’m sorry, Lottie and Raymond Jr.” A photo of Lottie still on the floor, her throat cut and bleeding without end, creating a large puddle on the floor. Something felt so real yet so fake about the photos. Were Raymond and Lottie real people? Was it all an elaborate prank by the guy who sold it to me? If so, a pretty sick prank.

I reached over to the journal, hoping for answers. I opened the first page and the first line was, “I killed her.” Raymond’s confession. Almost ten pages of the ramblings of a mad man, filled with anger and guilt. In every paragraph, at least once, was written, “she wouldn’t give me a son.” All Raymond wanted was a son. And his wife, Lottie couldn’t give him one. So, full of shame, guilt, and anger, he killed her. And assume himself afterwards. The last page read. “Rest in Peace. Lottie Anne Petersen Jenkins January 27, 1950 - November 5, 1971 (6:15 p.m.). Raymond Michael Jenkins July 13, 1947 - November 6, 1971 (1:32 a.m.).

All I wanted to do at that moment was go to bed and forget this ever happened. I tried to sleep, but I couldn't. Every time I closed my eyes, all I could see was that baby. Or Lottie slumped over dead. And if I ever ended up dozing off, all I would see is the scene of that night. Raymond being fed up and going way too far. 

In a few dreams, Raymond has spoken directly to me. He says, “show someone else.” Then he pauses and stares at me blankly. “Or I’ll be here. All day. All night. Forever.” Then he laughs in an evil cackle and commits the murder. He then turns around and does the same to me. I wake jolting up in bed, Raymond’s face still in my mind. Maybe he’s right. Maybe if I show someone else he’ll leave me alone. But if I burden someone else with these photos, I’ll ruin their life. Everything will be over for them. But I’ll be saved. The greatest act of selfishness for my well being. If you receive this, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I could never be so sorry. But I have to do this. For me, you know? Just remember, I love you. 

[2 images attached]