I pick up the next letter.
Hello Isabella,
I’m mad at you, so you don’t even get any nicknames right now.
Firstly, what the fuck? I’ve sent you four letters now and you haven’t responded to a single one of them. No, “Hi Mickey, I missed you so much. Can’t talk right now!” or “My darling Mickey, oh dear! Are you okay?” from you? Literally nothing.
Nada.
Zilch .
Come to think of it, there’s no ‘secondly’. You haven’t answered my calls or visited me. Even this fucker named Damien came to visit me. I almost turned down his visit in case you showed up, but guess what? You didn’t.
WHY.
WON’T.
YOU.
ANSWER.
ME?
Someone tried to stab me today, and they came real fucking close to killing me because I could barely move my arms. Do you even care?
Oh, and in case you were wondering, I’m healing great after my wound got infected. Thanks for asking. Really appreciate that, Isabella.
I’ll probably forget about how mad I am at you if you respond. But you better have a really damn good reason for the radio silence.
The only time I get to talk to you is in my dreams, and that’s not good enough for me anymore. I want the real thing. I want the real you.
I fucking miss you, Bella.
Respond to me. Please.
Yours,
Mickey.
P.S I’m still serious about the conjugal visits. Say the word and I’ll get it arranged ASAP .
There’s no stopping the tears streaming down my face.
We both suffered. I haven’t stopped for one second to think what it was like for him for the past three years. I’m not the only one who felt like life was ripped away from me, and I’m so unbelievably selfish for being so goddamn self-absorbed.
The next letter I pick up is dated earlier this year.
Are you okay? Thunderstorm was really bad, and I know how scared you get.
Please reply so I know that you’re alright.
He never forgot about me. He didn’t even try to move on, and here I was, spending the past three years trying to forget about him.
There’s no order to the letters, because the next one I open is two years old.
Someone thought it was a good idea to play Disney on TV in a room full of thugs. We watched Mickey Mouse. It made me think of you.
Everything makes me think of you.
Why didn’t Mickey give me these sooner? Why didn’t he remind me about them?
I just won two and a half grand in a bet. Where do you want to go? I’ll take you anywhere as soon as I’m out of here.
I chuckle through my tears as I pick up the next letter. My heart crumbles, the padding falling out and the cracks splitting wider.
8160 hours.
365 days.
52 weeks.
That’s how long it’s been since I’ve seen you.
Happy birthday, Isabella.
I’ve been learning how to sketch portraits. It’s not much, but the drawing at the back of this page is my gift to you.
I love you, Princess.
I wish I could hear your voice. Or that you’d write to me. That would be my birthday wish. That’s the only thing I want.
I choke on a sob, giving up on trying to keep my tears from spilling onto the parchment. He’s bled for me while I’ve cried for him. We’re nowhere near even. I know, without a shadow of a doubt, he’s willing to bleed for me until the day he dies, and he’ll spend the rest of his life keeping the tears out of my eyes.
I have an idiot cellmate who gave me an early birthday present in the form of a prison tattoo. Can you guess what it is?
That must be Rico.
Why didn’t I try harder to find him? Why didn’t I even consider the possibility that he might be in jail?
That was stupid. I don’t know why I asked you to guess.
I’ll just tell you the answer: I wanted to carry a part of you.
It hurts.
It all fucking hurts.
There must be at least a hundred letters in this pile.
I don’t even know why I still bother sending you letters. You probably don’t even read them. You’re eighteen now and most likely far away from Greg’s house. I’ve been lying in bed wondering what you’re doing now, which colleges you applied to, and what you’re planning on studying. Or if you are still deciding what you want to do.
You’re so smart, I know you’ll be amazing at whatever you put your mind to.
I knew you’d worry about paying tuition, so I’ve been saving for when you decide if you want to go. And if you don’t want to go, that’s fine too. I just want you to know that it’s there when you need it.
Just respond whenever you can, I guess.
I miss you.
M.
Hidden in the corner behind the bed, I stop breathing as I read the next letter.
They put me in the box yesterday.
As soon as they put me in there, my first thought was, “At least I can see Bella after this.” Then as the minutes—or maybe hours—went on, the voices got louder. They wouldn’t stop. No matter how much noise I made, they made more.
It’s worse than I remembered.
I wanted to die, Bella.