All The Things I Never Said: Asylum

I

Sister Mary Eunice,

Forgive me, little sister, but I've, yet again, found myself within the confined spaces of a letter addressed to you. I just don't know who to turn to anymore—not that you would, but your light could've easily cured me... if only you were here to do so. I've always believed in your capable hands, even during your darkest hours.
I've fought many battles over the last couple of days, none of them ever seeming to match the agony of living day by day with the guilt regarding Briarcliff. Tell me, what are the odds of having to stay like this for the rest of my life?
On a different note, I've been told that Judy died today. Such a loss to our beloved church, such a wonderful gain for heaven. Oh, yes, I'm confident with what I've written for I believe Judy is nothing but a woman the world has exhausted, a woman who's become bitter, numb, because she needs to be. I've come to love her, just not in the way she wanted, perhaps.
I'm writing this to you because I know you never really had the chance to speak with her. I hope you can, now, because deep down, despite the distinguishable differences, I am fully aware that she means more to you than anyone.
For the time being, I will occupy my time with the church. I know you're well aware of my plans, I'm trying to live it through—or rather, live until I still can. Miss Winters has somehow found a way to chase my tail, and I must run in fear of being caught. But fear not for I will surely write to you again. It makes me feel relieved, even though you can't hear me. It feels like you're here with every letter.

Timothy Howard
Cardinal of New York