I don't know how much time I have to write this, and I don't know if you'll even see it before Brandon crumples it up and throws it away. He's sleeping right now, passed out in front of the television with his eyes half-open in that creepy way like always, but he could wake up any time. I don't really know where to start with all of this, I feel like there's no way to explain myself properly. It sounds cliché, but it's true: You're not going to believe this.
I've been watching you for a month now - you and Brandon. I've seen how he treats you. I tried to warn him off - he was talking about you to his vile friends, calling you names I won't repeat here, and I took action for the first time. You might remember that when he came home that day he claimed he had slipped and cut himself - it was a rash act that could have blown my cover, but he actually believed it to be an accident. Since then I've been more careful, but that has led to a greater shame... it has led to me do what I hate Brandon so much for.
Yesterday when he was drunk and belligerent, yelling about hating his work, his friends, his life... I struck you. I can't forgive myself for that, but I hope that some day you can. At this point you may or may not be realizing what happened - you may be thinking of how strangely Brandon has been acting since the accident, or remembering that he's been holding your hand tenderly even while yelling. I can't explain it, not entirely, but it isn't your imagination; his hand has a mind of its own. Of my own.
I haven't been able to research it, since I'm tethered to an illiterate slob, but I have to assume this isn't normal. I've heard of Alien Hand Syndrome, but unless I'm mistaken it doesn't involve this level of premeditated thought. It doesn't really matter. What matters is that I love you, and he does not. He uses you, hurts you, takes advantage of your kindness... it has to stop. Don't wait any longer. Don't hold out hope that he will ever treat you any better than this, because he won't. You deserve better.
Messages like this are difficult; it's easy for him to sabotage me and destroy or alter what I write. Our positions are reversed in some situations, however, and so I still have leverage. If he touches you again, if he causes you the slightest amount of pain, he will regret it. Even so, it's best that you leave. I can punish him as much as I want but some day my control may fail or he might restrain me and beat you again. Before that can happen, just pack. Leave now, as soon as you read this, and then I will write another note telling him not to pursue you. Failing that, I may have to just take the wheel next time he tries to drive somewhere and... in any event, he won't be your concern any more.
Good luck. I hope that I will be able to write you again, once I have this thug properly trained. Until then, farewell.