Dear Anyone

Florida State Prison, June 2010

Florida State Prison, June 2010

Dear Miss Cunningham,

I want to be up front and honest with you right from the start. I’m not one for letter writing and I can’t see how it will help either of us. It’s going to take more than a letter to do that, it’s going to take a miracle.

Your letter was passed to me two weeks ago and has sat on the table by my bed ever since. It was not until yesterday that I picked it up and read it for the first time. I held it between my fingers which were shaking slightly. I don’t know why, perhaps it was merely a knee-jerk reaction to an unexpected letter, or whether it was through indecision, or even fear, whatever that initial feeling was, it was something that I hadn’t experienced before.

Should I open it, or shouldn’t I?

I’m not afraid of letters of course, but I was afraid of what I might read within the pages. Would it be filled with false hope or sickly clichés; would it make me feel a whole lot worse, or was there a slight chance that, if nothing else, it could offer me a distraction.

I doubted the latter and put my money on the sickly clichés.

I’ve been told that writing letters can help guys in my situation, but I’ve never agreed with this form of ‘dogoodery’ (I don’t even know if that’s a proper word. It probably isn’t) and that’s another thing that bothers me; not knowing what to say and sounding like a complete jerk if I tried to say it.

Obviously, against my better judgement I read your letter to find that you sound like a well educated woman of the world. Now you see me, well I’m just a U.C.F. dropout from Nebraska, who lived the dream of sun, s*x and sand while he could and became nothing more than a lazy old beach bum, relying on his good looks and charm until his luck ran out. So I have to ask -do you think we’ll have anything in common? Have you said all that you wanted in that one letter and have no intention of writing another? Many thoughts pass through my mind Miss Cunningham, and I have to say that I am still a little wary of replying. It’s not that I distrust you; I think it’s more likely that I don’t trust myself.

When I finally came to the end of your letter though, I realised that you have a way with words that is easy and absorbing to read, and I was attracted to how it made me feel, I quite liked it. I think that your letters could bring a little piece of England into my cell, and let me tell you that’s a talent. I would look forward to reading more of your world, so I hope that my gut instincts are way off the mark and that your letter was not a one off.

Perhaps I won’t be able to put things the same way that you would, but I would like to try to help you see that your decision to write to a Dear Anyone was, as you thought, a good idea.

After I read your letter I began to build a picture of you in my head, and I could almost see you in your day to day life, doing the simple things that I always took for granted until they were taken away from me, like walking for more than a few paces in a straight line, and looking up at the sky.

I’ve never been bothered about writing letters before, I guess I’ve never seen the point or had the time to put down on paper how I have felt about things, but having said that, after I read and re-read your letter, I’ve not been unable to think of anything else but the ironic similarity of our respective situations. You’ve got into my head Miss Cunningham, and I want to get to know all there is to know about the lady from Dorset in England. I bet you speak with that perfect English accent which sounds so sexy in the movies, and I can imagine that your skin is tinted a delicate shade of brown, tanned by your time outdoors.

You sound far from being shallow, but as to how deep you really are, well, like you said; only time will tell, and hopefully we’ll both have as much time as we’ll need to get to know one another better.

You didn’t mention too much about your illness, the treatment that you’re getting, or if surgery is an option, and I don’t like to ask. I guess if you want to tell me you will and that’s fine, and if you don’t, well that’s fine too.

I can visualise you sat by the ocean in your little part of the world, and as I read your letter for the tenth time, I can almost hear the crash of the waves and even taste the salty air as I lick my lips. There are no rock pools where I came from, but I did have the ocean and miles and miles of golden sand, where I too could look out towards the horizon, and through squinted vision it almost seemed possible to be able to reach out and touch it.

There’ve been many things in my life that have been just out of my reach and at the time, given me much heartache. Things like true love, a wife and family of my own have always been off the menu. But not everyone is the homemaking type, and I guess I’ve been one of those. I’ve lived for the moment, ducking and diving to avoid commitment, but where has that got me? I’ll tell you where – alone. I didn’t want to let anyone in. I thought that if there was only myself to look after, life would be trouble free. I couldn’t have been more wrong though could I?

So now I find myself lost in thought too, but I think that’s a good thing. It’s like writing your own film script. Unlike trying to re-write history, you can re-invent yourself and put yourself with the leading lady of your choice. Yeah, it’s impossible to undo in your head what’s already been tied, but the mind is stronger than the bars that surround us, inside we are still free.

Having said all that, I have a cupboard full of ‘if onlys’ and ‘things left unsaid’ files, which I wish I could open. What could I have said or done differently, Miss Cunningham? Do you know, because I don’t? If I had gone to church every day, would that have made a difference to where my life has ended up? Or, perhaps if I’d helped that little old lady to cross the street, would that have made a difference? It makes you think don’t it?

You mentioned feeling as if you were about to fall off the edge of the world, which is a feeling that I know all too well, only I feel as if I am drifting in outer space, as if my umbilical cord which anchored me to earth and all its realities has already been cut, and I am already floating in oblivion. Although a bit scary at times, it’s a feeling that I’m slowly getting used to. Outer space is a lonely place though, you have to be comfortable and content with your own company, and right now I need to talk and be heard.

People just don’t listen, do they? They get fixated with their opinions and nothing else will register in their clouded thoughts. I have to believe that my legal team will be able to break down these fogged up barriers which have ultimately sent me here to death row, and I have to believe that good will, in the end, outsmart the bad. I need help to do this though; I need help and strength. Forgive me for asking, but are you strong enough to offer this? I have to be sure, because once I get into this form of release, I won’t want to stop and I don’t want you to add to my problems as I don’t want to add to yours.

If you continue to write, could I ask for a photograph? I have a place for one right by my bed. You see I have no windows, nothing to look at to remind me of the outside. I’ve been told to forget life on the other side of these walls; that life is not at all what it’s cracked up to be, but we both know, don’t we, that that is just not true? We know that when there is a real threat of it being taken away, the world outside becomes a very precious place. That’s why you sit by your ocean, isn’t it? You feel the need to be as close to nature as you can possibly get. Well just imagine harbouring those feelings but being unable to satisfy your instincts. How frustrated can you imagine yourself becoming? That’s just a tiny part of my feelings right now, so along with the injustice, the isolation and the fear of both the end and the journey to the end, maybe you can get an idea of how much I need an outlet like the one that you are offering me.

If you read this letter and then change your mind about exchanging thoughts and feelings with a guy who’s about to lose his life for something he didn’t do, I will understand. After all, why should you, a complete stranger, believe a word I say. Just for the record though, Miss Cunningham, I am innocent of the crime I ‘m about to die for, but like you I still have hope. I’m hanging on to the hope that my attorneys will keep coming up with some new evidence that can sustain the appeal process and put me far away from the place where the two little girls were murdered on that terrible night two years ago; there must be someone, somewhere who can stop this nightmare from reaching the conclusion that most have mapped out for me.

Are we both crazy? Are we both foolish to fight a battle that we can’t possibly win? Should we just throw in the towel and say sod it? Sod the justice system, sod medical research, sod the lot of them. Are we both fighting a battle that we just cannot win? Why does giving up feel so easy and the only way to go sometimes?

I would like you to feel as if you can tell me anything, no matter how stupid it may sound to you. Hey, some of my inner most thoughts would probably surprise you, and I surprise myself sometimes. I think of things and then wonder where such thoughts could have come from; not from my mind surely. I quite fancy the role of a sounding board though, and being able to offer my help to you in any way, would, as you say, be like a two-way agreement just between you and me. You see, I too do not ask for sympathy, simply a listening ear and an open mind.

I know that I’m as innocent as you are, and that I have a place in Heaven alongside you, because there has to be a better place waiting for us somewhere; we deserve better. Wherever that may be I hope to meet you there one day Miss Cunningham, because you sound like a decent lady, but until then, please write back.

Kind regards

Dear Anyone