Dear Elizabeth

I hope this letter finds you in good fortune. I know you must be weary from minding both children all on your lonesome, I hope the money I left you is enough to support you until I’m out of here.

They say that crime doesn’t pay, I should have listened because here I am, rotting for my crimes. I always knew that getting caught was a risk, that’s why I made sure to hide the money in more than one place. One place the cops would find and one place where you could find it and use it while I’m gone.

Don’t worry about the store I lifted it from, it’s all insured. I know it was a gift shop for sick kids and some people might think that’s messed up. I just thought  nobody would expect it or have prepared for a robbery at ‘Lil leppers toy shop’.

I write this letter by candle light.

Remember the candle lit dinners I used to make you? Or the times I had candles throughout the bedroom when I would try to be romantic? I was never very good at that.

This candlelight is decidedly different.

I need it to see by even in the middle of the day. My cell is so dim, even with a small window. I suppose window is a generous term. It’s smaller than the piece of paper I’m writing on and it’s  more than an inch thick. Tarnished and dark with dirt on the outside, and even more so from the sins of men on the inside.

What did you tell Allister about why I’m gone? When you read him books and when he makes up stories about great heroes and terrible villains, does he understand that I am one of the villains?

And Olivia? Do you make sure you dance with her and watch her spin? Does she know she’s beautiful? I think the worst part of all this is not being there to make sure she knows she’s precious.

And you, my darling, squeaky pie, first mate. You already know, but I’ll say again. I’m so sorry I’m not there with you right now, warm next to you in the bed. I’m sorry I’m not there to be with the kids. I’m sorry I’m not there to drive in the snow and make you coffee you won’t drink because I always make it too strong. I’m sorry I can’t stink up the kitchen when I cook for myself and you have nobody to watch spooky shows with.

I love you.

I love you more than tacos, beer, and coffee. I love you more than Christmas day and New Years Eve.

I didn’t realize what I had to lose before it was gone and I was stuck here.

I know now.

Being away from all of you is the worst punishment imaginable. If I could go back to the time of sentencing and choose between jail time and having both legs removed, I would happily choose dismemberment.

When I first got here I was counting the days. After a while that stopped, after a while everything feels the same. As though my senses have been cauterized by this brutal monotony.

Sleep, get screamed at, eat, get screamed at, outdoor time, get screamed at, chores, get screamed at, eat more, sleep more,  get screamed at more.

It all blends in my memory to a strange grey mass of fear and screaming.

I used to judge the others based on their crimes too. That also stopped after a while. At first I thought,

“ the murderers and rapists, they’re the ones that really belong here. I’m better than them.”

After a while that thinking dissolves. We all knew the rules of the society we lived in, and we all broke them.

It’s the price of admission.

In a month my automatic opinion when I walked in a room went from:

The tall rapist sitting alone to Ricky who’s allergic to strawberries.

The murderer who’s really loud to Kyle who really hates peas and takes cream in his coffee.

Trevor, oh Trevor. He got here 4 years ago for robbing a bank. His wife had cancer and couldn’t work anymore. She’s died since. 6 years ago, he won a silver medal in the Olympics for javelin.

At first You walk into the mess hall and see a collection of crimes attached to faces.

Now I see a collection of men paying for their sins. After you share a thousand colourless tasteless meals with a group of people, after you fold a thousand identical white t-shirts; you start to feel the things that made you feel so different before just kind of evaporate and become unimportant.

It’s not like you’d think. I don’t feel overwhelmed by evil, I feel overwhelmed by the fact that anything good never gets to grow. It’s not the amount of badness that gets to you, it’s that it’s not countered by any goodness; none that lasts anyways. It just breaks my heart that any brilliance is wasted, any beauty shrouded, and any generosity or charity something to be punished for.

I miss the outside. I miss the sky on days it’s so bright and so blue it hurts my eyes a little. I miss Olivia peeing on my side of the bed. I miss the kids yelling from the bathroom for me to come wipe their bum. I miss your cooking. I miss the smell of fresh cut grass on the rare occasion I remembered to cut it. I miss the shape of you, and the smell of you.

I miss you. I hold on to the memory of you at all times. When I get out will you be there waiting for me? Will you forget me? Will you still want me?