Dearest Lucy,
I cannot recall a time in which I may have been so recklessly inconsiderate as to have offended you, but if there was such a time then I offer you an apology lavished with heartfelt sincerity. Harming you would be as torturous to me as being buried alive in the hardest soil infested with deadly scorpions, mockingly hissing, conversing in their strange and sinister language, silently plotting my demise.
I know that a being as innocent as you may not have the darkness of heart to fully comprehend the injustice that has been thrown upon us, but I know that you understand me enough to know that I have committed no crime. Judge Turpin may present himself as a paragon of virtue and honor, but in my eyes he is nothing more than a grim statue crafted by Satan himself, moulded from clay composed of all the vial vices and sick sins that thrive in his diabolical kingdom of hell.
I have written constantly to you. I write every day. I pray that you receive these letters. Is that why I have received no response? Are they reading my letters and disposing of them rather than forwarding them to you? Have I been wronged not only by by the master, but by his servants as well? Are my jailers as blindly obedient to Turpin as the Beadle is?
Words cannot express how hopeful I am that this is nothing more than theoretical nonsense. Please, if you are reading this, I beg you to respond. These confines are unbarable, yet in the darkness of my cell the light that emmenates from mere memories of you is enough to give me strength to hope that one day we may reunite and put this terrible nightmare behind us. You are a swan among thrushes, a diamond among coals, a moon among asteroids, more dear to me than a thousand precious rubies.
They say that God is merciful. I have lived a sinless life. Our courtship was innocent. I have done no wrong. Why, then, do I live in mortal hell? Have I sinned without realizing so? I hope that you will pray for me. Please, pray that God will find a way to reach me, to bring me home to be with you and assist in the upbringing of our dear daughter.
Has Johanna spoken yet? I have been away two months. Surely her speech has progressed. She was almost able to say "daddy," when I last held her in my arms. The memory of her warmth keeps me whole. Sometimes, I think that she, my dear, and you, my angelic dove, are the only things that keep me from going over the edge, from spiralling into an abyss of bitter insnity. Sometimes, I fear that you are the only thing that keeps me human; that without you I would transform into some hideous monster with a wild, demonic glare and hair as wild and untamed as that of a madman. Even now my ebony mane whitens.
Oh, Lucy. I miss you so much. My love for you is stronger than concrete, deeper than the ocean. I need to know that you are unharmed. So, if you can, please find a way to let me know that my worries are simply conjurations of a wild imagination. I beg you.
Ever faithful,
Benjamin