Michael Scofield picked the last letter from the bag; he was always last. It was some sort of card, from a woman, his senses could tell. Housewives, retirees, single, lonely women desperately looking for someone to talk to. Hell, he didn't have anything else to do with the other 23 hours a day in his miniscule cell, so he opened the card, and began to read.
To Whom It May Concern:
I'm not sure of how to go about writing a letter such as this, but here goes.
My name is Bella Jackson. I am 34 and I live in a condo by the bluest water one could ever hope to see. I am a freelance writer; a teacher by profession, and sometimes it gets lonely, especially in the months that I don't have any students.
I'm looking for someone to talk to, and maybe you are, too.
Please feel free to write back.
B.
P.S. I was going to put stamps in an envelope for you, but they said that they would be confiscated.
Michael grimaced: the guards always kept unnecessary things just to make life behind bars suck a little more. He rose up out of bed, took some paper and a pencil from beneath his pillow, sat in the corner, and began to write.
Dear Bella,
Thank you for your much-welcomed letter. I, too, am not quite sure on the etiquette used, etc., of the art of pen-palling, although I do know that mail coming to and going from this prison is read and thoroughly inspected.
I'm surprised you didn't ask about what I was "in for," as most people do right off the bat. It's a long story. Maybe if we stay in touch, I'll tell it to you.
Thank you
Inmate #80379
Dear Inmate #80379 (Are you allowed to use your own name?)
Thank you for your letter. It arrived much sooner than I had expected.
My day has been long. Two of my students got into a fight, but couldn't get in the bathroom to clean up because another student has the flu. Here I go, rambling on, and I'm sure you've no interest in hearing about the battles of children.
How is the food there? I hear most of it is junk and unhealthy. Do you get to go outside much? Fresh air does wonders.
I will close for now, but look forward to your response.
P.S. What are you in for? I have plenty of time.
Take care.
Michael smiled as he sat down to pen another letter. It gave him something to do, at least. Would she believe his outlandish (but true) story? He decided what the hell, and began. He told her about his brother, about Fox River, about escaping, about being exonerated, about getting his pregnant wife out of prison; about her dying, about giving up hope and sitting to rot in a small cell, counting the days, one by one by one. Her letters would give him something to look forward to, finally, and he thanked her. If she didn't want to continue correspondence, that was fine, too, although he would miss it. He closed the letter asking about the children: who won the fight and who else got sick. He put the letter in an envelope and sealed it, waited for mail call to come round.
Eight years. Eight long years. A person can go crazy with that amount of time. His brother and friends though him dead, and he wanted to keep it that way. They were free, and to him, that was all that mattered. He absent-mindedly touched his ring finger…he longed for his life, their life together. It had been cut so short.
He would exercise before showering: jumping jacks, running in place, pushups, you name it. At first, everyone stared at him in awe, as his entire upper body was one huge tattoo, the Fox River blue prints, carefully etched into his skin. They thought him crazy, which he liked: you don't mess with crazy. So, he stayed to himself most of the time. He knew the faces and the reputations, but no more. Knowing more was dangerous.
He got her third letter at chow time, so he skipped eating. The food was shit, anyway. He hopped up into his top bunk and opened the letter. It smelled like flowers that he couldn't quite place; it was the most wonderful scent.
Dear Inmate #80379,
I wish you would tell me your name. Inmate followed by numbers feels so cold and distant, like you aren't a person. You are a person, and you do matter, even if you don't realize it.
The children got sent home for fighting and the other went home sick. They'll be out of school for a few days, at least.
What do you enjoy doing? I'm not familiar with prisons, but I'm sure you must have hobbies. Do you like reading? I have loads of books I could send you, if you'd like. Let me know.
Take care.
B.
Dear Bella,
I love to read. There is a prison library here. I've read most of the books. I guess when you've got nothing but time and trying to survive it's good to delve into another world other than your own. I would be pleased if you would send me a few books from time to time; I'll return them.
P.S. My name is Michael Scofield
