Chapter Four
G abriel had been in a piss poor mood for three days. Fury pulsed in the air around his large frame to such an extent that even Alex had wisely kept his mouth shut and stayed as far on his own side of the cell as possible. The other inmates, already intimidated by the sheer size of him and his unpredictable temper, gave him even more space than usual.
Three days.
That’s how long it had been since he’d last received a letter from her . The obnoxious woman—not woman, child —that had shown up in his life from out of nowhere, hellbent on disruption and acting like she knew one single fucking thing about him.
You’re not a monster.
The words repeated endlessly in his mind since he had first read them and the sheer audacity of it was still difficult for him to wrap his mind around. She’d watched the damn shows, read the fucking articles … she knew exactly what he’d done.
He’d never denied it.
You’re not a monster.
But he was. Why didn’t she understand it? That it didn’t matter at all what the hell she thought she’d seen or how he’d felt or why it had happened. It only mattered what he’d done. They’d made that clear to him in abundance, hadn’t they? His family, his friends, the courts … all of them. He’d been left to rot in a juvenile detention center for a year because his mother and uncle, the thought of whom still sent fresh coils of rage rioting through his veins, refused to post his bail. He’d turned sixteen in that hellhole, all alone and with no one to acknowledge him.
It was only the hope he’d clung to that had gotten him through that. He had been open with his lawyer about what had occurred, and the psych evaluations had resulted in a diagnosis of severe PTSD related to events that had occurred before the stabbing, about living conditions that clearly fell within the definitions of mental, emotional, and sexual abuse.
It painted a clear picture and it seemed like it should have been enough … but it wasn’t. Not once the lawyers had decided that his version of events wasn’t credible. He’d spent years wondering if they had simply been too overworked to bother investigating his story or if they had simply been fans of his uncle’s, unable to wrap their minds around his role in what happened.
Gabriel could still feel it, the weightless absence of sensation when he’d realized none of that evidence would be used, the way shock and disbelief almost made it feel like he was floating, how the words themselves were muffled as they reached his ears, the dark metallic taste of fear on his tongue when he realized what it would mean. He’d never gotten a chance to speak, to explain, to lay out his reasons and be judged fairly for his crimes.
The verdict had been unsurprising, such a foregone conclusion in his mind that it hadn’t even been able to penetrate the hopeless numbness. The press had gone crazy over his lack of reaction. It was one last thing to demonize him for before they locked him up and threw away the key.
Not that he was sure it would have mattered anyway. The public had already gotten the story they needed, the media spreading the details for everyone else’s entertainment, and he’d been made to understand exactly what he was. They had wanted a monster, and he had become one, the last of the hope inside him dying as the trial progressed.
How dare she show up now, years after it had all stopped mattering to him, to try and tell him he wasn’t a monster?
On the third day, simmering with rage and unable to hold his emotions inside any longer, he scribbled another hasty note on a torn scrap of paper, breathing heavily through clenched teeth as he slammed a stamp on the corner of the envelope.
What the hell do you know about anything, kid? You think I’m a nice person even after everything I’ve done? After all the shows you watched you should know exactly what kind of monster I am. Did your parents keep you so tightly bundled up in your nice little house and your nice little church that no one ever bothered to teach you stories about the boogeyman?
That’s a serious flaw in your education, princess, so let me do you a favor and fill in the gaps. The devil you should be worried about isn’t the kind that lives in your Bible and thinks that saying ‘fuck’ is a sin. The devil you should be worried about lives next door to your house and thinks about peeling the skin from your bones. He’s the friendly guy at the grocery store that pays to watch strangers do unspeakable things to kids on the internet, or the nice lady at church who goes home and beats her own children, but only in the places where their clothes cover their bruises.
Hell is empty, sweetheart, all the devils are here.
Alex smirked when he handed over a new crisp white envelope.
“Fuck off,” Gabriel snapped, but there was little heat to it.
It had been longer this time, long enough that he really thought that maybe his last letter had finally gotten through to her, that she’d moved on, but she was stubborn.
It was almost as impressive as it was irritating.
He tore the top off the envelope and quickly scanned the letter inside, noting with surprise that there appeared to be a few spots near the bottom where the rich black ink had blurred and the paper looked thinner, more fragile.
Tear spots.
Fuck.
He hadn’t meant to make her cry.
Gabriel,
Shakespeare quotes, huh? I’m impressed.
You’re not a monster or a devil, even if you do try to act like one. I’ve been so nice to you, and I think you owe me an apology for being so mean all the time, but I forgive you.
I forgive you because it’s what I’m supposed to do. As a Christian it’s what God commands me to do, but more than that, I forgive you because I think you’re a man who has a lot of hurt in his heart. Have you seen those devils, Gabriel? The kind that you told me about in your letter? I think you have, and I think they hurt you.
You asked me what I knew about anything, and I guess that’s fair. No one expects someone like me to know about hurt or how it can dig around inside you and scoop out everything else until there’s nothing left but the numbness and the anger. They keep you safe because it means no one can get close enough to hurt you.
No one expects me to know it, but I do.
I learned about it the day my birth parents left me alone in a run-down motel room and never came back. I was three, and they left me behind like garbage they didn’t want anymore. The state thinks they were probably junkies, but no one knows for sure.
I learned it again in every foster home they put me in for the next three years. They bounced me around from place to place because no one wanted to deal with my issues. I guess my parents hadn’t fed me very well because I was always stealing food, no matter how much the new families gave me. I got into a lot of fights with the other kids, and I bit people a lot. My adoptive dad still has a scar on his arm that I gave him the first week they took me in.
I thought that was it when my last foster family adopted me. That pain would never be able to find me again because I had a family of my own, but I learned it again a few years ago when my mom died. That one probably hurt the worst. She was good, and kind, and she wanted me when I was so wild and angry that I was practically feral, and she loved me anyway. She didn’t deserve to die, but she did. I couldn’t stop it and it hurt.
I don’t know why I am telling you this, I probably shouldn’t, but I said we could be friends and I guess I think friends might talk about these things, the kind of secrets that weigh on their hearts and leave scars.
I have other friends, but I don’t talk to them about stuff like this. They don’t understand what it’s like to hurt this deep and if I talk about it, they look at me with pity. I don’t think you would pity me. I think you’d understand that even when things look okay on the surface, they might not be okay on the inside.
Maybe you don’t have many friends, and I hate the thought of anyone feeling like they’re alone. I know what it feels like to be alone and Gabriel … you’re not alone.
Mia
Her heart beat a little faster when she pulled the letter from the mailbox. She bit her bottom lip as nervous butterflies flitted around her stomach. She had no clue what she’d been thinking, sending him that last letter. She’d poured her heart out to him, an angry and resentful stranger, on impulse and with nothing but a stray hope that maybe there could be some connection there.
Now the results of that decision were in her hands.
If he was still angry at her, still not interested, then she would have no choice but to ask the warden for a different name, no matter how strongly she felt that God had brought her to Gabriel for a reason.
“Hey,” her dad called from the kitchen, “don’t let the screen door … slam.” He sighed, good natured even in perpetual disappointment, when the door reverberated against its hinges behind her, as he had done at least once a day since she’d moved into this house. She’d always been a little bit careless, but he never really seemed to mind.
“Anything good in the mail today?” He stood at the stove, sleeves of his white dress shirt rolled up as he made dinner. There was a little salt in his pepper dark hair, and a few wrinkles around his eyes when he smiled, but he was still a handsome man. Mia attributed most of it to the kind twinkle in his blue eyes—everyone loved her dad.
“Hmm? No … I mean, yes, there was but it was just a letter from that pen pal program with the Bible group.”
He brought a spoon of spaghetti sauce to her lips for her to sample and she nodded. The flavor was good, better than anything she could have made. Desserts were about the most anyone could expect from her in the kitchen.
“Is it going well? The program? I’ve heard so many good things about what’s happening in the Bible group lately.”
She slipped the letter into the pocket of her jeans, hoping he wouldn’t ask her about her own experiences. “I think so. Everyone’s pretty satisfied with it so far and most of the inmates were very enthusiastic about the idea.”
“That’s good, honey,” he said, clearly distracted as he looked around the kitchen for a clean spoon. “Why don’t you grab us a couple of plates? I think this is almost ready.”
She sighed in relief, pressed a kiss to his cheek, and set the table for dinner.
As they ate, they chatted happily about her upcoming plans for the Bible group now that the Fourth of July picnic had come and gone, and his upcoming sermon for the week. The relationship between them was comfortable and easy, and she knew how lucky she was to be so loved and unconditionally supported, even though there was still a permanent ache around her heart when she looked at her mother’s empty chair.
Maybe she’d handled things badly in her letter and she should have focused on her blessings. Gabriel was going to tell her how spoiled and ungrateful she sounded. How spoiled and ungrateful she was … complaining about her life to a man that would spend the rest of his behind bars. The guilt she felt was sudden, sticky and unwelcome as it clung to her ribcage and soured her appetite.
Unable to face him, she left the letter sitting unopened on her desk until morning, when her curiosity finally overrode her anxiety and she had to see his response even if it was a blistering lecture on her own privilege. She could apologize if he was angry and try again, she decided, forgetting her plan to leave him alone if he was still reluctant to write to her. It didn’t make sense for his opinion to matter so much to her, but it did.
Mia,
If I’m not alone, then neither are you …