Love Stamps

6 ~ My Distraction

Subconsciously, my mind drifts to the day in Atwell's office. My slip-up. I remember the fear that came rushing back to my nerves. Like a familiar drug on my senses, numbing me back into that state of submission.

The rules were a major part in my fear. Things Flynn said, but never specifically told me were rules. Things he would hit me for if I went against, like I was a pet rather than a wife.

Which makes what I'm about to do so much harder.

I'm sitting on my bed, leaning over a lined piece of paper, a pen in my hand. I tap it against the paper, anxiously chewing my lip, thinking.

What the hell do I write? My brain is blank, no words coming to mind. How do you write a letter to someone you've never met?

Maybe that's it? Maybe my subconscious wants to tell someone other than my sixty-year-old therapist who I'm pretty sure doesn't feel sympathy.

But I won't. I won't tell this stranger about my gruesome past.

I don't even know his name because Atwell refused to tell me. He said it would be like meeting them for the first time, not knowing a single detail about the other. Except the fact that the man I'm going to talk to is in prison, and apparently, he is around my age.

What if its Flynn?

The thought sends shivers down my spine.

No, Atwell would never do that to me.

What if Atwell works for Flynn?

I laugh out loud at the ridiculousness. Stop being stupid. That is impossible.

The tension has eased out of my muscles but is now building back up again when I think of the letter sitting in my lap.

"Why don't you start short and simple?" I recall Atwell's words from earlier that day.

When I walked into his office he told me what was happening with this letter program and practically booted me out again.

"He doesn't know anything about you, like you don't about him. No names, no ages, no nothing. You can choose to tell those things in time." Atwell had said.

"After you write the letter, bring it to me so I can send it to the place which handles the exchanges."

When he said that, it got me wondering. Why couldn't I do it myself? But then I thought the reason he was doing it was to save me from the social situations.

Maybe this man does feel sympathy after all.

A ping from my phone draws my attention and I check to see who it was.

A message from Atwell is on my screen.

Have you wrote the letter yet?

Maybe not.

We are on a deadline. It needs to be written by tomorrow or they won't accept it.

Shit. How am I going to write a whole letter in one night if I don't know how to begin?

I send a message back to him.

How do I start?

His response is almost instant. The old man sure knows how to work technology.

Introduce yourself.

I wait expectantly, but a second message doesn't come. Is that it? Is that all the advice he has to give?

I sigh, annoyed, and slump back, leaning against the headboard.

I stare at the paper in my hands, hoping words to magically sprawl across it.

"It doesn't have to be formal. Just write whatever comes to your head."

That's the problem, nothing is coming to my head.

Fuck it. It doesn't have to be a masterpiece.

Dear stranger,

My therapist is making me write this, and it's a lot harder than I thought it would be when I agreed.

Honestly, I don't know what to say. To start, my name is Avery Ryan, but people call me Ava. Feel free to call me whatever you want, but trust me, I've heard worse.

I don't want to get too much into my backstory on the first letter. Truthfully, even if I did tell you, you probably would think I was lying. But anyway, I doubt my past compares to what you've been through.

I'm not here to judge. I don't care about what you did to get yourself locked up. A person with flaws is still a person, and every person needs someone to listen to them without constant scrutiny. I hope you don't judge me either, because, if anyone were to tell you anything about me, it would be that I'm a lot to handle and I'm quite blunt.

I would understand if you don't write back. Part of me is dreading if you reply, and another part of me is insanely hopeful that you do.

Don't feel pressured or anything, I know you have a lot on your plate.

Being locked up in a cell must take up a lot of your time.

~ Ava

By the time I'm finished writing I have spent two hours on it. Checking the clock again, I'm bewildered at how much time I spent writing about two hundred words.

I read and reread the letter, overthinking each line. Will he take offence to some lines? Maybe I should take them out. No, it might persuade him to respond. It presents my personality. Or what I want my personality to be?

I should add something in so he knows not to take it the wrong way.

Should I? Will he think I'm weird?
Damn anxiety is driving me crazy.

P.S I make jokes when I don't know what to say. Don't be offended.

That seems too demanding.

P.S I make jokes when I don't know what to say. D̶o̶n̶'t̶  Please don't be offended.

I smile to myself, finally happy with it. Its kind of like a school essay - you don't know what to say that will be allowed by the teachers, in this case, the prison guards.

Leaning over the side of my bed, I fish out an envelope from my nightstand and slip the letter in, sealing it so that Atwell can't read it. Not like he would anyway. The man has some boundaries, believe it or not.

I place the letter on my nightstand, switching off the lamp and wrapping myself up in my warm duvet. My eyes flutter shut in exhaustion.

I hope the letter reaches him. I kind of also hope he writes back.

No, I don't hope.

I need.