I Started Writing To A Convicted Murderer Out Of Boredom, Now I REALLY Wish I Just Stayed Bored
By Vanessa Doe
“Good morning, sunshine,” a voice from nearby the trees said. I turned my head, watching as Rob snuck out from the shadows. He walked towards me, instantly I tensed up, holding the rock out of sight behind my back.
“Hm, you’ve hurt yourself.”
I began to back up, his face turned from pleasant to angry almost immediately.
“If you run, I will cut through your neck until I feel bone,” he snarled.
I gulped. Nodding, I understood.
“Good. Now, let’s begin. When you reached out to me, what did you think would happen? No — don’t answer, it was rhetorical. I’m a murderer, prison didn’t change that.”
He inched closer; I was frozen in my spot. I knew better than to move. He looked me up and down briefly, smirking. He kept his eyes glued to me as he bent down picking up a stick from the ground and held it out for me.
“I can’t imagine the pain you’re in,” he said in a soft voice.
I was hesitant to grab the stick with my free hand, but I knew that this could benefit me in two ways; put the pain on my leg on pause, and use it as a weapon. I took the stick, putting the rest of my weight on it. “What are you going to do with me?” I asked, tremor in my voice.