by BT Urruela
You are a fucking monster. I will never forgive you for what you’ve done, but I at least deserve a reason why. You owe me that much. My mother cared for you… she really did. We talked often about the things you’ve been through in your life. She wished so much that she could’ve taken your pain away. Little did she know. Little did any of us know.
How could you take the life of someone else? How could you rip my family apart like this? Our winery is gone. Watson Metalworks is gone. The land and home we had for two generations… gone. Seized by the bank after repeated non-payments. My dad has completely given up on life.
So what, your life was shit so you decided to make someone else’s life shit too? How could you? God, I just want to fucking kill you. I think about it sometimes. You deserve to rot in that place. And I hope you do. I hope you spend every single day remembering what you did.
Just tell me why. Please, just tell me why.
Paige
The letter falls to my mattress and I feel the tears roll down my cheeks. If I could make her see the truth.
I pull a notepad and pencil out and do my very best.
It’s been two weeks since I sent the letter, and I’ve regretted it since day one. How can I expect to get anything out of a cold-blooded killer? For all I know, everything this man ever told me has been a lie. He’s a monster, and that’s all there is to it.
I’m just finishing my eight-hour shift at Whittaker’s. After what happened, I can’t run numbers anymore. I can’t sit in front of a computer and do accounting bullshit when all I ever think about is her. With the phone call from the sheriff playing over and over in my head, how would I concentrate?
I pull up to our apartment complex, one that nearly every dollar of my paycheck goes to. Dad hasn’t worked since the loss of my mother. If it weren’t him—and Brandi—I would’ve offed myself a long time ago. I’d be lying if I said I don’t think about it often. I just don’t think my father could stand losing anyone else. My death would almost certainly result in his own. As it is, he’s drinking himself to death anyway. He sleeps in until late in the day and wakes up just to get drunk and pass out again. Every single fucking day.
I don’t blame him. The only way I can go in to work and put on my fake smile is because of all the shots I take while I’m there. I’ve become an alcoholic myself, but at least I’m a functioning one. When I’m sober, all I feel is pain. The liquor quells my ability to feel—at least for a little bit—though most nights I cry myself to sleep anyway. I just don’t want to exist anymore.
I don’t want to think about that day. I don’t want to think about being at her funeral, breaking down in front of her closed coffin, having to be dragged out of that place. This pain is deep and visceral. It’s everlasting.
I walk into the apartment to find my dad passed out on the couch as usual. An empty fifth of Jack and a plethora of empty beer cans litter the coffee table. Dirty dishes are stacked two feet high in the sink. The apartment has a filthy musk that hangs in the air from lack of cleaning. I can’t bring myself to do much when I’m home. As for my dad, he rarely leaves the couch for anything other than pissing and grabbing more beer. He rarely eats.
Caleb moved back soon after Mom’s death, but he’s never home other than to sleep and eat. He doesn’t work and he dropped out of school a year ago without much resistance from Dad, so I’m not sure what the hell he does. I’ve seen him deteriorate quickly, with constant bags under his eyes and a sadness he carries with him always. He has a thousand-yard stare that most often is attributed to drug addiction. I’ve had a sneaky suspicion that he’s gotten into the harder stuff, but I haven’t even spoken to him much in long time.
As I grab a beer from the fridge, I remember the letter and wonder if perhaps the fucker has decided to write back. I haven’t really checked the mail in quite some time, and now seems as good a time as any.
I check the mail slot beside our front door and find a mess of envelopes and coupons. I pull them all out, set them on the counter and rifle through them. Most are overdue bills, which I toss into a pile of mail I’ll never open. It’s far easier to ignore them than to face the facts. We’re sinking, and we’re sinking fast.
I’ve gone through most of the envelopes, and there’s no sign of anything from Xander. Would I even want to ingest his bullshit? I’m about to toss the remaining envelopes to the side and head to my room when I see it. Written in pencil, scribbled on the front of a plain white envelope is Xander’s name.
For a moment, I think about crumpling it up and throwing it away. But I can’t. I grab a bottle of vodka from the freezer and carry it, along with the letter, to my room.
After a few nerve-settling shots, I open the envelope and pull the letter out. I take a deep breath, another shot, and I unfold it. Here goes nothing.
Dear Paige,
What can I say that would convince you of anything other than what you already believe? I’m no killer, Paige. And I loved your family. You have to know that. I would never want to hurt any of you. You don’t know how difficult this all has been on me too; how difficult it still is. They found shit in the guesthouse—shit I didn’t put there. They found weed in my system and in the guesthouse. They told me I had no chance of convincing a jury I was innocent. I had no idea what to do. They were going to send me to my death, and right about now, I’m wishing they would have. I thought I was sparing you the pain of going through a trial—of seeing what I saw that night.
Paige, I can’t erase my memories of finding your mother that way. I couldn’t put you through that. I couldn’t put your family through that. I thought accepting the plea deal was my only option. It’s the only thing that made sense at the time. The sheriff, the DA… they had it out for me. They were out for blood. What was I supposed to do?
I understand this probably sounds like a load of shit to you, but it’s the truth. I’ve spent the past three years running thinking about it constantly, and I still can’t make sense of it. I thought I did what I had to do. I thought I was doing what was right. I knew what the loss of your mother would do to you, and I didn’t want to put you through even more. I’d give anything to bring Teresa back. I’d give my life for hers in a heartbeat.
You don’t have to believe me, Paige. I probably wouldn’t believe me either. But just know that I truly loved you, I loved your family, and I would’ve never done anything to hurt any of you. I was set up, plain and simple. I don’t know who and I don’t know how, but I was. I’m a slave to these thoughts, and they own every second of my life. Believe me.
Everything I ever told you was the truth. Everything I ever felt for you was real. I don’t ask you to take my word, I just ask you to truly think about it. I hope you can at least open yourself up to the possibility of someone setting me up. I had a lot of enemies, Paige. You know that.
I feel I’ve said too much already. I don’t want to cause you any more pain than you’ve already experienced. I just need you to know, on God, on my life, on my undying love for you, I DID NOT kill your mother. I pray one day you can see that. I pray one day you’re able to heal from your wounds, though I know these are wounds that will never truly heal. I pray I’ll hear from you again, even if it is just to wish more hell upon me. I’ll take it. I’ll take it all, because hearing from you, no matter the context, is the best thing I’ve felt in years.
If you could see my eyes and hear me out, I know things could be different. But since I can’t, I wish you the best, Paige. And if I never hear from you again, I’ll understand. This is my life now, and though I am here for a crime I didn’t commit, it somehow feels like I’m right where I belong. It’s where I’ve always belonged. I’m a nobody, and I deserve to rot as nobodies do.
Xander
Teardrops coat the letter as memories of my mother flood my brain. I ball the paper up and toss it to the floor, then tip the bottle of vodka back and drink as much as my taste buds will allow. The drunker I get, the more I sob. I look to the drawer where my 9 mil is stowed away, and
I contemplate pulling it out and shoving the barrel into my mouth. I think of pulling the trigger gently, letting the memories disappear into a splatter of brain matter on the back wall.
I don’t though. I just drink until I can’t feel a thing. And then I fall fast asleep.
I wake up with a skull-splitting headache. It takes a moment for me to gather my thoughts… to remember the events from last night. When I do, I quickly snatch up the crumpled ball of paper and unfold it, doing my best to flatten out the wrinkles. I read the letter over and over again.
Then I cry harder than I have in a long time, so unsure of what to think. The truth is, beyond the loss of my mother and the complete collapse of my family, one of the hardest parts to swallow about this whole ordeal has been believing Xander could kill my mother. What I felt for him was one of the realest things I’ve ever known. Everything about him seemed genuine. Every word seemed so honest. He opened himself up to me, and I could feel his love for me. People that kill aren’t like him—at least I never thought they could be.
But why give up his life to spare me? Why not at least try and convince a jury of his innocence? My head is filled with so many questions—questions I feel may never be answered. But what if I were to go see him? What if I gave him a chance to explain himself… to get it straight from the horse’s mouth? Would it even do any good? If he were lying to me before, cloaking his evil with sweet words and actions, why could he not do the same now? I would’ve never even thought about it before, but having read his letter, a small part of me wants to see him. Maybe even needs to.
I ready my computer to respond, though it seems about the hardest thing I can imagine right now. I sit and stare at the flashing cursor, the words stuck somewhere deep in my gut. Uncertain what to say and how to say it. I close the laptop and make my way to the fridge for my first beer of the day.
I pop the top and take a long swig while opening the door and grabbing the Truman Valley Times from my doorstep. The headline catches my attention right away.
Another murder rocks Truman Valley.
Immediately, I recall Xander’s words. I would’ve never done anything to hurt any of you. I was set up, plain and simple.
I flip the paper open and scan it and see a picture, all too familiar, on the front page: a body wrapped in a body bag being removed from a trailer. I begin reading, the paper shaking in my hands.
At 9:08 p.m. on Tuesday night, the body of Mandy Little was found by a relative. She’d been stabbed twenty-one times and decapitated. Her head was missing from the crime scene. This makes the third murder in Truman Valley over the last three years. Investigators are puzzled as the crime scene was free of any fingerprints, and there was no noticeable evidence.
“We are doing everything in our power to catch this killer. I’ve seen nothing like this in my eighteen years as Sheriff of this town, and I ache for the victims’ families. We will catch this madman as swiftly as possible. Our investigation is ongoing, and at this time, we have no leads,” the Sheriff stated at a press conference last night.
We’ve heard similar responses from the Sheriff’s department over the last couple of years, and the citizens of Truman Valley are becoming understandably restless. Many local businesses are reporting a sharp decline in revenue as citizens spend more and more time in their houses.
The sheriff stated they are looking into possible connections between the three murders. All victims were stabbed and their bodies mutilated.
The last line makes my stomach turn in tight circles. I’ve been following these latest murders, and each one reminds of what my mother must have gone through that night. The possibility of a connection between these murders and hers sends a chill down my spine. Then the tears start again. Crying is all I seem to do these days. Then, once again, Xander’s words replay in my head…. I was set up, plain and simple.
I toss the paper aside and head back to my desk, disregarding the computer this time and pulling out a pad of paper and pen instead.
“Wait a second. You’re telling me the dude drained from his asshole… continuously?”
Twitch looks up from his steaming bowl of ramen and shakes his head.
“Not all the time. But on foot patrol, in one hundred and twenty-degree heat, yeah, he did it continuously.”
For two weeks now, Twitch has been my cellmate, and I’m still surprised by the shit that comes out of his mouth. Most of it is both disgusting and surreal. He served in Afghanistan and Iraq. He’s seen best friends take their last breaths beside him.
“So what the fuck did he do? Just let it run in his pants?”
“No, man…” He laughs. “Who the fuck is just gonna let shit drain in their pants on a combat patrol?”
“Well, fuck if I know! I’ve never heard of rectal discharge before. So what the fuck did he do?”
“He stuffed paper towels in his ass crack. Kept a roll in his pack, and every half mile or so, he’d have to pull the shitty paper towels from his ass, throw them to the ground, and stuff more in. All while he’s still walking.”
My uncontrollable laughter, the kind that knots the stomach and makes it hard to breathe, is broken up only by CO Hansen arriving at our door. He holds up a letter and immediately my mind is taken away from Twitch’s story and to the possibility of the letter being from Paige. The only other person who has ever written me is Irish, and I take so long to respond and I’m so short with him, I think he’s finally given up. I haven’t heard from him in quite some time.
It has to be Paige.
“Xander, ya got mail.” He tosses it to me and I catch it mid-air.
“Thanks.”
I flip it around, read her name, and my heart lodges in my throat.
“Something good?” Twitch asks, still chewing the last of his Ramen.
“Something great,” I say, tearing the envelope open and unfolding the letter.
Xander,
I’ve thought a lot about this. I’ve written and rewritten this letter many times. I still don’t fully understand why you would just confess. I would never confess to a murder I didn’t commit. But then again, I think of the alternative—the possibility of getting the death penalty—and it confuses me all over again. I get why you would confess, but then I don’t. It’s hard for me to fathom.
I balled your letter up and threw it away when I first read it. I want to hate you. It feels good to hate you. It keeps me focused. I’ve thought of you dying many times. And I’ve thought about doing it myself. But this morning I put two and two together.
There have been two more murders here. All three deaths are very similar. And while I want to continue hating you, and I don’t understand clearly why you confessed… I think there’s reasonable doubt. And as much as I want to feed this hate, the possibility that it could be someone else who killed her completely overwhelms me. I couldn’t live without knowing. I need to know.
What if I were to meet with you? I want to talk to you about all of this and see your face when you tell me. I want to read your body language. That’s where I’ll start. Just let me know.
Paige
For the first time in three years, I feel some semblance of hope. Three miserable years here, and for the first time I’m feeling something other than pain. If I could talk to Paige, she’d hear the honesty in my words. She’d understand.
“Twitch, throw me that pad and pencil, will ya?”
He tosses them and I write just about as fast as I ever have.
Pulling into the prison parking lot, my heart pounds in my chest. I’ve never been so nervous in my life. I downed two shots before I got here, and I throw back one more for good measure before exiting the vehicle.
The process of getting inside is unlike anything I ever expected. I’ve seen it on TV shows, but they never show all the necessary procedures. It really is a pain in the ass.
I take a seat in the little nook, one of two dozen on either end of the room. The thick plastic barriers separating old-style telephones is dirty and opaque. I t
ap my fingers feverishly against the weathered metal booth. My mouth is dry, my tongue is numb, and there’s a lump in my throat that feels almost suffocating. I don’t know if I’ll even be able to get a word out.
When Xander rounds the corner, I gasp softly at the sight of him. Not because of how he looks—he still looks damn good… and he’s bigger—but because it feels familiar yet incredibly foreign to lay eyes on him again after so long.
The moment the officer ushers him to a seat and heads back toward the door, a few tears roll down his cheeks. He looks quickly at the metal dividers to his left and right as he wipes the tears away. Then he lifts the phone and pulls it to his ear. I do the same. Neither of us says a word. Another single tear rolls down his cheek and he leaves this one be.
“Hi,” he says weakly.
“Hi.”
