Dear Bella,

I hope this letter finds you well, particularly since I am writing it against my better judgment. Your last missive gave the impression you put too much importance on what goes on in my head. However, I said I would write, and so I shall.

Please, Bella, know this. I am not someone who can ever become important to you. Our worlds were not meant to intersect. While you tangentially received an unintended benefit from one of my loathsome actions, it does not mean we are linked in some way. I feel as though you are expecting something I reveal to provide a measure of healing or comfort. Maybe some sort of explanation for what happened to you? Trust me, nothing could be further from the truth. While I detest what I am, even I truly believe his nature to have been far worse than my own.

There are a couple other things I need to set absolutely straight here.

Your death will never be at my hands, whether you want it to be or not.

Your picture is not here for my amusement, nor that of anyone else.

If you would like, I can send the photo back to you. Daily, it reminds me that there is something of humanity worth protecting; I was afraid I would forget that fact while residing here among the dregs of society. However, if it concerns you that I have it, if you really think I would use it in such a disrespectful manner, then I'd rather send it on back to you.

As hard as all that was to write, now I get to the truly challenging part of this letter. How do I explain to you why I've killed, and why I'll more than likely kill again? Imagine, if you will, a hunger stronger than any other you have felt before. A hunger that encompasses your whole body, leaving you weak and aching with a feeling akin to the most debilitating disease. Then, imagine one action on your part, an action that is as easy as breathing, would end all the misery. Would you do it? I did. Now, I'm choosing to live with the disease instead of appeasing it.

Do you wonder, why am I this way? What did I do to cause this curse to fall upon me? The answer is, nothing. It truly is my nature. I can no more explain it than explain why water is wet.

Can we speak of other things, Bella? I'd like for these letters to be about more than death and judgment. Would you like to tell me about yourself? Again, I ask this against my better judgment, I don't deserve to know more about you. But, with each word I write, I find it harder to maintain a distance. Never before have I considered revealing so much of myself. I find it cathartic, and I think that can only be because of you. It sounds horribly selfish, as I know I can't heal you; can you heal me? Of course not. But, then again, neither can these flimsy walls. If I can delude myself into thinking this place can provide some sort of redemption, maybe I can further delude myself into believing the grace I seek can come from you.

So, how about it? Will you tell me of simple things? Your favorite color, perhaps? Your favorite gem stone? What activities you've enjoyed?

And, what on earth are those horrendous smelling, pink things you sent me? I've been afraid to even remove them from the package. Were you serious about using them as currency? I can imagine no other outcome were I to disburse them, than to be accused of poisoning the prison population. Oddly enough, even more so than the cigarettes. Seriously though, you needn't send me anything. There is nothing in here I want that can not be obtained through my own endeavors. Save your funds for more worthy purposes.

I'm hopeful you will accept a gift from me, perhaps? My attorney is taking care of the actual transaction being as my options for commerce are limited here. While I don't want to ruin the surprise, I will say that this gift is intended to remind you of beauty that exists, even under the harshest of conditions.

Yours,

Edward