The Convict

The Letters

I think I'm broken. No, I know I am. It's been six years since I was kidnapped, five since Dakota Foley got sent to prison for kidnapping me and murdering Antonia Hernadez. I don't know what happened, honestly, I don't. I can't find the moment in my mind it all went wrong.

It's a slow descent into madness, gradual. Catching you off guard until it's too late to change anything. I was doing so well after the sentencing. I went to counseling three times a week. I finished college and got my degree. I came out as gay and got into a stable and committed relationship with someone who didn't try to kill me once. I did all the steps, took all the classes, and still...

Still.

It started slowly, the occasional thought of her. One phone call here and there. Normal letters checking on her, reassuring her, begging her not to give up. A visit every couple of months. Normal, supportive, friend stuff.

I gaslighted myself, convincing myself and everyone I know that it wasn't that big of a deal that I was talking to Dakota again. That she was in prison and didn't hold power over me anymore. I think I said it so much even I started to believe it.

Little did I know I was falling into a pattern, a series of dangerous behaviors and actions every drug addict ever has had to face before. I was rationalizing things that should have raised red flags in my head. I was downplaying events that were like literal bombs being thrown at my life and sanity. I even justified horrible and disgusting behavior; once again making excuses for the girl I witnessed with my own eyes kill someone in cold calculating blood.

It was slow, gradual... Lies upon lies. I am fine. I am over the kidnapping. I have moved on. I don't care about Dakota Foley anymore. I don't have PTSD. I don't need any more medication. I don't need counseling, Then slowly, cracks that turn into fissures that eventually break apart my protective armor made of lies that once shielded me from that year of my life.

The thoughts, the dreams, the daydreams. All the questions and hypotheticals. What if this and what if that? What if Dakota didn't kill that girl? What if Dakota was found not guilty? What if I hadn't confessed on that stand? What if I was never rescued? Would that be the worst thing in the world? Would Dakota still love me? Does she still love me now?

Does she still love me now...

The Letters

Dear Dakota,

I had a funny dream about you last night. I dreamt that you were here and that we were hanging out like friends do, you know? Like we were at a pool and getting drunk and just laughing and having a fun time. Then when you stood up to turn the music up, you fell into the pool. I laughed so hard that when I woke up, I was smiling.

What are your dreams like?

Dear Melony,

I don't usually dream of anything. Not since Carolina. Not since everything that happened. Most nights I don't even sleep. Always trying to keep one eye open, having to look over my shoulder. It's not safe for me here. People pick on me for the way I look. Say, I'm too pretty for prison. Make fun of me.

I'm exhausted all the time. I feel like prison has aged me. I should only be 26 or was it 27? I think I've forgotten my own birthday. Either way, I'm not old, yet I feel ancient in here. Every part of my body aches. I work out so much to try to deter the monsters in here from attacking me. Show them not to mess with me. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn't.

I wish I could dream. So that I could be at that party with you. Laughing, falling into the pool. I imagine you help me out and we laugh some more. Then you brush my hair behind my ear, looking at me with that face I can't forget. And then...