Dear Cindy, I fucked up. What can I possibly write? How do I get it all across. I should've told you everything when it happened.

I should have said, what?  Fuck. I don't know? This?

Hey Cind, how are you? A bunch of guys put these worms in themselves. They're not normal worms. They're from somewhere else. Okay, got it?
And these guys were robbing banks, and I was trying to find them. It was great. We had a map and everything. Phone records. Names. We followed them and photographed them and got ready for the raid.  

 And then one day, Cind, you won't believe this. One day I woke up naked, covered in vaseline, bleeding and sprawled at the bottom of an empty pool in an abandoned YWCA in Detroit. Remember the night of the twenty voicemails? Well, that's where I was Cind. I wasn't dead, shot on some raid, I wasn't cheating. I didn't tell you then. I'm sorry. I lied.
So, here I am coming clean. These worms, they start out small. They crawl in your gut and grow, and they shit the philosopher's stone, and you live forever. Sounds great right? Only it's not. Only I've seen what's left of a body when these things are done with it. They breed and you explode like a party favor filled with rotting guts and flailing alien worms.
I've SEEN this.

There's a worm in me now. 
I'm not going to wait around for it, and I see now, I can't write anything to you about it. I'm sorry Cind. I'm so very sorry. 
I love you,