after David was incarcerated and denied bail. I got home from school one afternoon, a month after everything, and found an envelope in the mailbox addressed to me. I never got personal letters in the mail—I don’t live in the fucking Dark Ages—so I was curious. I literally did not think he could write to me from in there.
I was stupid back then.
I didn’t know about all the ways you can get to someone from jail. The forwarding services that can be used to route letters to places they aren’t supposed to go. The prisoners willing to send other inmates’ mail, for a price.
I opened that envelope a naive kid who thought she was safe. I read the first lines—I hope you’re okay, May. I was so worried about you that day—and my insides froze, and I grabbed the pages and stuffed them under the clothes way in the back of my closet.
And then another one came, and another. And now it’s been months and I haven’t told anyone and I’m not going to tell anyone because they can’t protect me.
They didn’t protect me from the first letter.
They didn’t protect me at all.
* * *
—
I’m considering opening the letter that’s lying on my lap. Something inside me shifted today in the hallway, facing off with Zach. All the shit I’ve been trying to ward off has started to sneak back in, and now the envelope is heavy in my hand, burning a hole through my palm.
I stare out my bedroom window into the dark night for a while, brain blank, body frozen, and then rip the top off in one violent motion.
Inside is a handwritten letter. It’s pages and pages long. I read the first couple lines: It’s lonely in here, May. Have you ever felt darkness pressing down on your head so hard that you think your neck may break? My parents moved away. They don’t visit or call. You haven’t come to see me either. Why not? I told you, I have something to tell you about that day. I drop onto my bed.
I’m shaking. Hard. I wrap my entire body in a blanket, bury my head into it too, and lie, motionless, arms wrapped around my legs, like somehow, if I manage to hug myself tight enough, I might cease to exist. Sometime later, I drift into a restless sleep.
I’m jolted awake by the slamming of a car door. Heart racing, brain still half-asleep, I jump up and peer out my bedroom window to the driveway below. My mom, home from work. She looks tired. I glance at my clock: eight p.m. Early for her, these days.
I hear her downstairs slamming kitchen cabinets, and then heavy footsteps on the stairs. A few seconds later, her bedroom door slams shut with a bang. Nice to see you too, Mom.
I lie back down on my bed and stare at the ceiling for a few minutes, but I’m restless now. I flop to my side, and the fucking letter falls off the bed onto the floor, its pages spreading across the carpet like a stain. I jump up. That’s it. I can’t lie here any longer with this bullshit contaminating my space.
I bend down and gather the pages, trying not to think about what might be written on them, trying not to breathe. I crumple them together and head downstairs and outside. When I get to the garbage cans on the side of the house, I start tearing the paper into confetti. It’s getting all over the ground, but I just want his words gone. I want to erase their existence. Tear them out of my mind. Scrub them from my brain.
By the time I finish, my fingers are bleeding and my face is on fire. There’s no way I’m going to get back to sleep. So I grab my backpack from behind the old refrigerator in the garage, where I stuffed it the other night, and take off down the driveway on my bike.
About thirty minutes later, I pull up on the curb outside the Tellers’, panting and drenched in sweat. The night air is thick and heavy on my