I Started Writing To A Convicted Murderer Out Of Boredom, Now I REALLY Wish I Just Stayed Bored
By Vanessa Doe
I sighed and walked to the fridge, taking out an open bottle of wine. I looked in the sink, there were a couple dirty dishes, but I didn’t have the energy to wash a glass. So, I drank from the bottle — very classy. Walking back to the couch, I sat down, pushing the crumpled papers away. I took a couple sips and began to write:
‘Hello Rob, you don’t know me. My name is Anna, and I am a high school guidance teacher. I find out what makes people tick, and how I can fix them, so maybe that’s why I’m writing to you. Do you get many letters? Letters from your victim’s family? I can’t imagine what that must be like.’
I read over my letter, it wasn’t detailed; it was more like an introductory letter. I shrugged; I didn’t even think the letter would get to him in the first place.
It had been eleven days since the letter was mailed off. The days dragged on, and I found myself obsessively checking the mail twice a day. I looked at the clock on the wall, it read half past eight. Mail time.
Walking to the front door I had noticed the porch light was off. Odd, since I vividly remember turning it on. Opening the mailbox, I felt around the edges, my finger catching onto something sharp. “Ow!” I exclaimed, immediately taking my hand out. My index finger had a paper cut on it, the blood beginning to come through the skin. I peered into the mailbox, using my phone’s flashlight and couldn’t see anything at first, but once more I put my hand in there and when I felt the corner of the envelope, I pulled it out from its wedged spot.