Michelle Maurice,

Hurst, TX.

March 14, 1993.

Dear John,

I hope this letter finds you well, or as well as you can be, given your current place of residence. 

When I saw your face in the paper, I was shocked, but not surprised.

I don’t know if you remember me, but I sure remember you, for reasons I wish I could forget.

But this isn’t a letter for pointing fingers at you.

No.

Those other three girls knew to do that, and were brave enough to see it through.

I never knew it was okay to speak up.

And of course you told me not to.

So I didn’t say anything.

You’re probably wondering why I’m writing now.

Well, I got the idea after drinking probably my fifth or sixth glass of activated charcoal in the ER.

Know what that’s for?

If you guessed to flush the poison from your body, you’re right.

What am I saying, course you guessed right, you were a pilot, you know about science and biology and whatnot.

But I had come to a point where I finally had enough of life, and I wanted to call it quits.

So at age 23, I overdosed on my husband’s antidepressants.

Guess I figure if I took enough of them maybe they’d knock the emptiness and despair out of me once and for all, one way or the other.

But God wasn't ready for the other way just yet.

But I’m getting ahead of myself, let me catch you up some in case you’re still drawing a blank on me.

(Also I may bounce around a bit as my memory isn’t what it used to be. You’ll see why soon enough.)

So I’m married to a wonderful man.

He was the first man ever told me I was worth a damn.

That surprised me, given the kind of work I was doing when I met him.

And even though we had a baby boy soon after we married, I still found it tough to believe him, and I kept on with my hellish ways.

But let’s jump back a ways further.

I lived down the block from you when I was a kid.

Seven, eight, nine, age.

You had the pool, the arcade games, the movies, the tennis court, everything us kids would find cool.

But my favorite was the Ferrari.
And seems I was a favorite of yours too, as you rode me around in that beauty a hell of a lot.

I didn’t feel special then and I still barely feel I’m worth a dirty dollar stuffed in a g-string, despite what my husband and little boy tell me.

But soon after all that business with you started, I liked myself a whole lot less.

I wanted things to change.

I wanted me to change.

So I started by changing my friends.

But that didn’t work out too well.

My new friends got me into weed, but I hated it.

It made me feel like Homer Simpson when he’s drooling for donuts!

So I started doing methamphetamine instead.

Started off I used to eat it in toilet paper.

Do you have any idea how disgusting that is? So chemically. Ugh.

So I started snorting it, but it messed up my nose.

So I went from snorting it to smoking it and when it started messing up my lungs I started shooting it right into my veins.

And all the while my parents couldn't understand why I went from being a sweet 12-year-old kid to being a demon from hell.

I never told them what had happened.

I never knew it was okay to tell them.

And yet they did everything to help me.

So for the next 5 years, they sent me from one rehab place to another.

Now I was no pony ride, mind, but these Christian “you’re gonna burn in hell” kind of girls’ homes didn’t help none either.

That’s terrifying enough for a kid to hear for the first time, but add to that the beatings and being strapped to the bed and being allowed to pig out on watermelon before movie night and then not being allowed to go to the restroom until the pain got so bad I had to crawl there on the floor despite the extra beating.

It was that or pee myself right where I sat.

Yeah we girls were a nightmare, sure.

But we were just messed-up kids and didn’t know what we were doing.

What excuse did those supervisors have?

But anyways, on went my nationwide tour.

From a detox camp in Pennsylvania to rehab in Dallas to a girls' home in Mississippi.

After a year and a half in a Kansas home, I got kicked out for starting riots.

I ended up in a rehab back where it all started here in Texas.

By then I was 17 and they couldn’t lock me up anymore.

By 18 I was shooting up so much that the doctors couldn't even believe I was still alive.

They said I wasn't really addicted to the drugs anymore.

I was addicted to the rush of shooting up.

Now you might could wonder how I could pay for all these drugs.
Well one thing you taught me was that my body could be traded for favors.

So I traded my needle-spiked body for easy cash whenever I could.

And it wasn’t all bad, because I met my husband in one of the strip clubs where I worked.

Yeah, the one who told me I was worth more than all this. 

But look at me getting carried away on random details again.

Could be I’m just putting off this part.

Just in case you still don’t remember me, this should do it.  

Although there was often loads of kids around your house because of the games and pool and whatnot, whenever I was there, it was only me.

And knowing how much I liked your Ferrari, one day you rode me down to Dallas to look at Lamborghinis… as if having a Ferrari wasn’t enough!

Guess now looking back you always wanted more than you were entitled to, no matter how much you already had.

And when we got back and I said I wanted to go home, you said stay a little longer.

I remember playing on the arcade games.

I remember you calling me back to come in your room.

I remember you shutting the door.

And I don’t remember anymore.
Could be the drugs or could be I won’t let myself remember.

But I’m sure you remember full well.

Because that was only one time of many.

If it makes you feel any better, you weren't the first to do that to me and you weren't the last either.

Thought for a while I must have had a stamp on my forehead that only people like you could see.

But after all’s said and done, I guess I’m writing because I want you to know that I don't hate you for what you did.

I didn't ask for it.

I didn't want it.

I didn't like it.

But I don't hate you for it.

I’m not mad anymore.

Not mad at you, not mad at my parents, not mad at the homes or the camps or the rehabs, not even mad at me.

I’m free of that now.

I’m free from the shit that I've had to deal with and the pain that I've endured, free from all the anger and hatred that burned inside.

And I was able to do all that by forgiving you.

And strange as it may sound, I want that for you.

So though you can’t free yourself from your cell, will you at least free your mind and your heart by forgiving yourself?

Will you do that?

Because sixty years in there will be hell on earth if you don’t.
I hope you do.

I really hope you do.

In forgiveness,

Michelle.