Chapter Five
I f I’m not alone, then neither are you…
He didn’t regret telling her that, not exactly. He didn’t even regret what he said after that—
Maybe you were right, maybe I do know what it’s like to feel that kind of pain, that kind of anger. There were secrets the trial didn’t talk about, things that happened to me before I killed my father. I’m sorry for what I said to you. There’s no point in talking about what happened to me. Not anymore. But if you’re determined to keep writing to me, we could talk about something else.
You could tell me about something that makes you smile because I didn’t mean to make you cry.
—though he probably should regret it because he just knew she was going to write back and say something calm and understanding. His worst tactics hadn’t been enough to shake her off, she was apparently immovable when she’d set her mind to something, and now he’d gone and been nice to her. He was definitely stuck with her now.
No, the part that he regretted was that talking to her meant thinking about things.
Lots of things.
Especially now that most of his irritation with her had begun to fade into curiosity, maybe even a grudging sense of connection. It was impossible not to wonder what she looked like or how she spent her time. Did she enjoy school? Did she have friends?
He reached into the envelope where he had stored her letters, rereading the first one for the hundredth time, careful not to bend or wrinkle the pages too much. She was part of a Bible study group, which sounded like a fucking nightmare to him, but meant she probably knew people and had friends.
That was nice for Mia, that she had people who cared about her, even if there were some things that she chose not to share with them … things that she had only shared with him. He hadn’t had a connection to anyone in such a long time that he’d almost forgotten what it felt like to be curious about someone else and to have them be curious about him in return. It was nice for him to know something intimate about someone, and she’d already shared so much, while he had shared so little. At least, nothing that the whole world didn’t already think they knew, anyway.
His eyes drifted to Alex, lounging in his bunk and reading some book that was probably dumb as all fuck, and tried to imagine what would’ve happened if he had even bothered to ask what it was about. Alex would’ve told him to piss off and that would have been the end of that. There was nothing for him here, he was absolutely alone and had been for a long time. Now, suddenly, it bothered him.
Maybe it wouldn’t hurt, to tell her something about himself, to try and connect with another person. She was safe on the outside, away from him and anything that could happen, any way that he could hurt her or let her down.
He went to sleep wondering what he might tell her when she wrote him back this time because he was sure that she would. It was odd to admit that he was almost looking forward to it.
That night he had one of the dreams again for the first time in a long time and it hurt even more than he remembered.
He was never sure exactly what happened in the dreams, his waking mind only able to recall broken fragments that didn’t fit together . His uncle’s face, smug and terrible, and his own impotent rage. The cry of a baby he’d never hold. Pleas from people he’d never see again as they begged him to save them. Pain and betrayal as he looked into the eyes of a monster and realized he couldn’t even save himself. Places he’d been flashed across his consciousness, his memories vibrant snapshots speeding toward an inevitable end he couldn’t avoid, and then the world turned dark and red, and someone was screaming, and he didn’t know if it was him or his father.
The scream was the last thing he heard in the dream, it always was, right before he bolted upright in his bunk with sweat pouring off him and a real scream stuck painfully in his throat. He always had a desperate urge to run, but he knew in real life he hadn’t run. He had stayed there, holding his father’s body and staring into his lifeless eyes until the cops found him a few hours later. He’d often wondered if he was still screaming when they got there.
Twelve years later, curled up in a bunk in the prison cell that he would never leave, he could still feel the rawness of his throat and the tears on his cheeks when they’d slapped him in cold, biting, metal handcuffs and dragged him away. Maybe he’d been a little insane then.
Maybe he was a little insane now, thinking that someone like Mia would still want to talk to him if he told her about all that shit. The shit he’d killed to keep hidden away because of the guilt and the shame and the fear that it had laid on his heart and soul.
The shit she’d lived through … it was shit that had happened to her, through no fault of her own, because life and fate were bastards to everyone. The shit he’d been through, though. That was his fault. His and Richard’s and Seth’s. No, he couldn’t tell her about all of that. She didn’t deserve to be dragged into that world, not even through his memories.
The next letter he received reassured him that he’d made the right choice. She was bright and happy and optimistic, and he’d be damned if that was ruined because of him, not after everything she’d already been through to come out shining on the other side.
Gabriel,
I understand that you aren’t ready to let me in and share what happened. I’ll be here if you do ever want to talk about it. Okay?
You didn’t really make me cry, I just miss my mom sometimes, but if you really want to know what makes me smile? Let’s see …
Food, always and any kind. I can’t cook but I love to eat, especially sweets. Peach cobblers and cherry pies will get a smile from me on even my worst days!
Music! I love music, but my favorite is contemporary Christian, and I don’t think you’d enjoy that. I like classical and opera, too.
I’m going back to college this fall. That makes me smile a lot these days. I attend the same school as both of my best friends which helps make it exciting even though I’m still not completely sure I made the right choice about my major. My dad thinks I’d be a good teacher, and I like kids, so early childhood education seemed like a good choice … We’ll see, I guess.
What else makes me smile? Oh! Getting letters from you! Is that weird? I know you weren’t exactly thrilled about it at first, but I know God sent you my way for a reason and I’m always happy to find a letter from you in the mailbox.
His stomach fluttered. It felt damn good to be the reason someone smiled. It settled over him, something he hadn’t realized he’d been missing, a new sense of purpose. Make Mia smile.
He kept reading.
I don’t want to upset you, and I know that it may be part of what you don’t want to talk about, but why doesn’t anyone else write to you?
Mia
He sighed and tipped his head back against the pillow, debating how honest he should be when he answered her last question.
Mia,
First of all, any food? What about liver? Haggis? My mother made me eat escargot as a kid. I was not a fan.
A laugh bubbled up inside her. She couldn’t wait to tell him how disgusting that was. Someone needed to feed him some real food. Except they couldn’t, she remembered with a jolt, because he was never getting out of prison.
Second, contemporary Christian is not my favorite. I like most music, but not that. Or opera. Did your parents let you listen to normal music?
Congrats on going back to college! I think you’d be a great teacher. You seem like the kind to dig until you find the best of someone and not let them give you anything less. Kids need that, someone to have faith in them.
Had he needed that? Why had no one helped him?
She nibbled on the jagged edge of a broken thumbnail, frowning as she read the rest.
Maybe I wasn’t the nicest person when you started writing me, and I’m sorry. You aren’t what I thought you’d be, and you don’t make me feel like I’m not human because of the mistakes I’ve made. Thanks for that.
And about your last question … my mother didn’t even come to the trial and my uncle died a few years ago. So even if he wanted to (which he didn’t) now he can’t, and she won’t.
It’s okay, though, they aren’t the kind of people you really want around anyway. I’d rather have you.
Gabriel
“What are you smiling about?”
She looked up in surprise, clutching the letter to her chest and meeting the kind and familiar face of James Prescott, the youth pastor at her father’s church.
At twenty-five, he was a few years older than she was and handsome. Short brown curls surrounded a perfectly sculpted face—high cheekbones, firm jaw, sensual lips over even white teeth. He had a passion for sports and the outdoors, and the sun had given him a perpetual burnished glow that deepened in the summer months. He was friendly, never wasting an opportunity to talk to her or tease her when they bumped into each other at church, but she wasn’t used to seeing him at her house.
“Hey, James,” she said. “Are you here to talk to Dad?”
“Yeah, he said I could swing by tonight and have dinner.” His eyes were still on the letter, but she didn’t appease his curiosity, turning instead to back slowly toward the stairs, only finally turning her back on him when she set her foot on the first stair.
He watched her go with an amused smirk and she knew that she had just set herself up for an endless stream of him picking on her about her secret. “Please excuse me, I need to run upstairs and clean up before we eat.”
“Sure,” he shrugged. “See you in a bit.”
She called back over her shoulder when she was halfway up the staircase, “Dad’s in his office. Go on back since he’s expecting you.”
It wasn’t a complete lie. She was going to clean up for dinner … as soon as she finished writing another quick letter.
Gabriel,
Liver is disgusting. You should be ashamed for suggesting that it qualifies as a food…