March 2nd – Day 246.

It's my birthday today. I'm officially 20 years old. I'm ready to die now. 20 is a good number for that. I'm exactly 7 years younger than Morrison, Hendrix, Joplin and Cobain when they kicked it, and I crammed all the shit they did plus more into a shorter lifespan. I'm ready to go. Jason thinks I should wait. I think I just have to find the right way to do it.

March 3rd – Day 247.

It's unbelievable. Unfuckingbelievable. The guard comes over to my cell door and says I have a visitor. I followed him out to the visiting area in silence. I look at the table and I swear my blood just froze.

She looked thinner than I remembered, but I was sure she was really there. Sister Chantelle.

"Hello Lucas," she said. And she was smiling. Or grimacing? Or both.

"Hi Sister Chantelle." I didn't realize how raspy my voice had gotten. I don't talk much anymore.

"How are you, honey?" Sister asked. She seemed genuinely concerned. I shrugged.

"Well, happy birthday." She handed me a box. "Go ahead and open it."

I did as she said. Inside I found a really nice, silver cross with my initials engraved on it. "Thank you."

I didn't want to tell her I had renounced my religion the day I was sentenced.

"You're gonna be okay, honey, but if you need me at all, just call me. Sister Chantelle can work her way into this place even after visiting hours."

She stood up, and so did I. I felt my eyes burning. Why was she being so good to me? I didn't deserve this. And then she hugged me. A real hug, not one of those half-hugs or one-arm hugs. It felt so familiar, and I felt hot tears rushing down my cheeks by the time she pulled away.

"I'm on your side, Lucas. I know you didn't mean to." And just like that, she walked out of my life again.

I'm sitting in my cell again. It's dark in here and it's hard to see the paper I'm writing on. I'm wearing the cross Sister Chantelle gave me. I don't think God is on my side, but at least the person who wants me to believe He is is. Maybe 20 isn't the right time to die.

March 15th – Day 258.

I can feel myself slipping again. The visit from Sister Chantelle gave me… I don't want to say hope, because that's not right, but I can't think of the right word. But it's been nearly two weeks since then. I'm falling back into routine. I'm suffocating in it. Wake up. Eat. Work. Eat. Bed. Wake up. Eat. Work. Eat. Bed.

March 27th – Day 270.

I saw his face through the window at the top of the door just beyond my cell. I saw him, and he looked anxious. But why would Matt worry about me? Hell, why would Matt visit me? I'm a low-life piece of shit and he never hesitated to remind me of it. I mean, yeah, we were joking around. I called him the Bridesmaid for always being second to Jason; he called me Janitor Bob because that's where we all knew I'd end up. He didn't know I was going to go to college. I didn't tell anyone. I was embarrassed. What would they say if they found out I actually wanted to make something of myself? No. It doesn't matter. I'll never know what I could've become because no one wants anything to do with me. Sister Chantelle was just a dream, and Matt was just a blurry face through a window at the top of a door a few yards away.

April 1st – Day 274.

I used to love April Fool's Day. I was the Prankster King back at St. Cecilia's. Prankster, party-boy, druggie, dealer. Was I ever a friend? Was I ever a boyfriend? Was I ever a student? Who was I kidding, thinking I could make something of myself? I'm shit. I'm not good at anything. I wanted to go to college, and for what? So I could continue being a prank-playing-drugged-up-party-boy? No. I wanted to do a major in business. I wanted to work with the big money, because I've always been good with my own stash. I'm good at math, so why not, right? Wrong. It was a stupid idea. It was a stupid dream. I was fucked from my very first hit of weed in 7th grade. I just didn't see it back then.

April 17th – Day 290.

I've been in prison for 290 days. Only 290 days. Not even a year. I have to stay in this place for another 74 months. Fuck.

April 23rd – Day 297.

I wasn't imagining it. Matthew Lloyd was here, that time a couple of weeks ago. He showed up again today. Just like with Sister Chantelle. Mind-blowing.

The guard led me over to a table where Matthew Lloyd sat, sporting a suit and tie, of course. I sat down, completely bewildered by his appearance.

He cleared his throat awkwardly. "Hey, Lucas. How are you?"

I shrugged. "What are you doing here?"

Matt shifted in his seat. He was definitely uncomfortable, sitting there with me, a murderer. "Well. I was in the area so I thought. –"

"Bullshit. Matt, don't fuck with me." I snapped at him. Ugh. It was just like him to show up out of no where just to rub it in my face that he was a free man.

"Listen, Lucas. There was a point where we were friends, remember?" He was just as pissed as I was.

"Yeah, I remember," I lied. It was a fuzzy memory. Most of St. Cecilia's was fuzzy.

"Look, I just wanted to tell you Ivy gave birth last month."

I was… Surprised, to say the least, but it piqued my interest. "Yeah? Boy or girl? What'd she name it?"

Matt shook his head. "Girl. But she was stillborn."

I didn't know what that meant, but it sounded bad. My confusion must've shown on my face 'cause Matt proceeded to explain. "She was born dead."

"You can't be serious. Come on, dude. That was the last…" I couldn't say 'the last piece of Jason left', but I'm sure my jaw must've dropped. Matt just nodded.

"Tell her… Tell her I'm sorry, will you?"

Matt nodded again and stood up. "Yeah. I just thought you should know."

I stood up too. "I am sorry, Matt. For everything."

He wouldn't look at my face after I said that. He just turned away with a wave goodbye and left me standing there, alone.

I'm sitting in my cell now. I'm crying, and I'm trying not to get the salty water spilling from my eyes on my journal. I didn't ask Matt what he was up to or how he was doing. I didn't ask for forgiveness… I want to tell Ivy I'm sorry. I want to tell Ivy and Matt and Peter and Nadia and Tanya and Sister Chantelle and Father Jerry and Mr. and Mrs. McConnell and Rory and Diane and Allen and Zack and everyone else that I'm so sorry. I'm sorry for killing Jason. I'm sorry everyone has to live with the grief I caused. I'm sorry Ivy's baby died. I'm sorry for wishing they'd forgive me when I don't deserve it. I'm sorry for everything.

May 7th – Day 311.

When my first year is up, I think the rest of my time here might go quicker. At least, that's what Mick says. Mick, the guy in the cell next to me, the guy who reported me to the guards for slicing myself open every day for 3 months. You could say he's cool, I guess. He's been here nearly 3 years for killing the guy who raped his daughter. His crime is justified. He isn't like other prisoners. He isn't like me. He's nice and gives me advice and talks to me, even when I don't say anything back. He says it gets easier after the first year. I hope he's right. It's the first time since the night Jason died that I've had hope. I want to hold onto it.

May 29th – Day 323

I'm so fucking stupid. I just read through this entire fucking journal and I've dated everything wrong. Well, no, I got the dates right, but today is not my 323rd day in prison. I used to be good at math. What the fuck happened? My goddamned writing got better and my mathematical mind went down the drain. Fuck! It'll be a year exactly since I started writing in this fucking thing in a week, and I've dated the whole fucker wrong. My first year in prison is up in two months. The way I marked this fucking thing to keep track of the days is gonna throw everything off. Fuckfuckfuck! Screw it. I'm not gonna list the goddamned days anymore.

June 2nd

I'm not sure what to do. I'm terrified right now… I've never been so scared in my entire life. The pen is shaking in my hand. I can barely read my handwriting. I'm just… I don't know. I want this year to be over. I want it to be done. I want to fast forward two weeks, skip the first year anniversary of Jason's death. I need it to be over. I need what Mick said to be true. It has to get better, easier. It has to. I have no other options.

June 8th – One Year.

This is it. This is the one-year mark. Jason died at my hands one year ago today. I feel…numb. I'm not a person anymore. Lucas Carter is dead. Yeah. He died when Jason McConnell's body hit the floor. I'm just his empty shell. I bet Peter and Nadia and the rest of the McConnell's and Matt and Ivy and Tanya and Rory and Allen and Zack and Diane and Sister Chantelle and Father Jerry and everyone else are at the cemetery – at Jason's grave – telling him they love him and miss him and how much they wish he was still with them. After that, they'll go their separate ways, except for Peter, Nadia, Matt and Ivy. They'll all go for coffee and catch up. They'll talk about college and work and how they've been holding up. They'll reminisce about Jason. Then things will fall quiet and Matt will say he came to see me. They'll all go ballistic on him. He'll say he was wrong to do it, that it was a mistake to visit Jason's killer. He won't pass on the message I gave him. He won't tell them I'm sorry.