Not guilt.
Something quieter than hope.
Gentler.
Unsteady, but warm. A beginning.
Seven~Her Words
Jaxon
They, Hand Out The Mail During Breakfast. If you can call this breakfast. I’m sitting at the same metal table I always sit at, same spot, same view of the TV mounted in the corner playing the morning news with the sound off. My tray’s in front of me, powdered eggs that taste vaguely like cardboard and regret, toast like rubber, a little plastic cup of something they swear is orange juice. It’s not like I look forward to this part of the day, but it’s better than lying on the cot staring at the ceiling.
The block hums with low conversation, the kind that never gets too loud. You don’t want to draw too much attention to yourself in here. Laughter exists, but it’s short and sharp, like everyone’s afraid that if they let it out too long, it’ll cost them something.
The guards move along the rows, boots ringing softly on the concrete. One has a bundle of envelopes tucked under his arm, a rubber band around them. He stops every few steps, glances down at the top envelope, grunts a name, and drops it on a tray or the table beside it.
Most guys look up when their name’s called. Can’t help it. Some try to play it cool, grab the letter like it doesn’t matter. Others snatch it, shove it in their pockets for later, like it’s contraband.Me?I usually don’t bother looking. It’s not like I’ve got people on the outside waiting with bated breath to check in on me. Not anymore. Whatever ties I had frayed and snapped a while back. You don’t get to keep many connections when you keep making the same mistakes.
I jab at the eggs with my fork, forcing a bite down. My jaw still aches when I chew, a dull throb where the bruise is fading into yellow and purple. I’m halfway through the toast when I notice the room’s got a different kind of quiet. Not much. Just a little hitch in the background noise. The guard’s stopped at my table.
“Ward.”
I glance up from my tray, expecting… I don’t know. Maybe he’s here to tell me there’s a meeting with my lawyer. Maybe they want to drag me into some back office and tell me that, surprise, things are even worse than I thought. Instead, I see it. An envelope. Plain. White. No window like a bill. No stamp from some official department. No printed logo.
My hands go still. The guard’s face doesn’t change. He doesn’t linger. He just drops it in front of me and keeps walking, calling the next name down the row. I stare at it for a second, fork suspended halfway to my mouth. My heart does something strange, like it forgets what it’s supposed to be doing and has to reboot.
The block keeps moving around me. Someone laughs three tables over at a joke I don’t hear. A chair scrapes. A cup clatters.The TV flickers to an ad with giant text that promises sales I’ll never see. The envelope sits there, stubbornly real. I recognize the handwriting. I don’t know how, but I do.
I’ve only seen it once, on that statement the cop was holding when he came by my cell a couple of days after they processed me. He didn’t let me read it, obviously. But I saw the signature at the bottom when he turned away. Just a glimpse. A curved letter, a trailing line. It stuck. It’s hers. The girl. The one I pulled from the dark, from under his hand, from the future she didn’t deserve.
For a second, my throat feels tight. Tight in a way that has nothing to do with fists or choked laughter. I turn the envelope over, trying to keep my hands steady. No name. No address. Just my inmate number and last name in the upper corner and, in the middle, in that neat, careful script:
M.
Just a single initial. I let out a slow breath I didn’t realize I was holding. Of course, she wouldn’t give me her name. Or where she lives. A girl like that, after what happened, she’d be thinking about safety first. She should. But she wrote.
I don’t open it right away. I’m not about to tear into it in front of a room full of men who’d love to get their hands on anything that looks like a weakness. I spear another piece of egg, chew, swallow. The food tastes even blander than usual. There’s a buzzing under my skin now, a low-level hum that has nothing to do with caffeine and everything to do with that slip of paper in front of me.
I take my time. Slow, mechanical, like I don’t want to give the guys around me the satisfaction of watching me scramble. Like I haven’t suddenly become the kind of man who’s one letter away from coming apart. I feel eyes on me anyway. Curiosity,mostly. Envy from a couple. One guy at the next table raises his eyebrows like he’s selling something.
“Fan mail, Ward?” he mutters. “Didn’t know you were famous.”
“Yeah,” I say, not looking up. “I’m a real celebrity.”
He snorts and goes back to his tray. When my plate’s empty, I stack the utensils, drink the last of the juice, and slide the tray to the side. My fingers brush the edge of the envelope again. It’s thin. One sheet, maybe two. My name on it makes something deep in my chest ache. As soon as the guards start herding people back toward their cells, I’m on my feet, envelope tucked in my fist like it might disappear if I loosen my grip.
The walk back is short. Concrete, bars, the metallic echo of doors opening and closing. This place is a maze I could navigate blindfolded already, which is depressing if I think about it too long. The guard unlocks my cell, gestures me in. The door clanks shut behind me. Lock slides back into place. Same sound as always, but for once, it doesn’t feel like the final line in a sentence. Not completely.
I sit on the edge of the cot and take a second to just look at the thing in my hands. My knuckles are still rough, scabbed over. The paper looks fragile against them. Out of place. I rip it open carefully anyway, tearing along the edge so I don’t shred whatever’s inside. My fingers aren’t used to being gentle. Not lately.
I unfold the paper like it’s something holy. And I read. Every word. Twice. The ink is a little smudged in places, like her hand shook or she hesitated. The lines are straight, though. Thought out. Not rushed. She calls me by my name.
Dear Jaxon,
She remembers the alley. The way he grabbed her. The way I dragged him off. She writes,
You stopped him.
