ENTRY 10:
[ THE PARADOX OF MY INNOCENCE ]
DEAR YOU,
Unknown to me, the jury had made their mind up in a matter of a few hours. I didn't stand a chance, I was dead before I entered the room.
I died the moment I met you, you would be the death of me. They think I killed you. They think I was so mad, I killed you.
Because they heard us fight, because they knew that I cheated, because they knew that my baby was brewing inside your stomach, because I had bruised you, because I was an easy target.
But I wouldn't.
I couldn't have.
I couldn't have killed you.
You were my light, you were my happiness, you were my life. They didn't listen, they never listened. They didn't let me speak. I wish they would have let me speak, to let me explain: I would have told them about my dreams of the future; with our baby, in a little blue house near a park, where we'd swing and laugh all day long. But they didn't.
I'm dead by tomorrow; they'll stick a needle in my arm, then I'll drift away. A man whispered, said it wouldn't be painless. Said I would suffer.
God, I wish things were different.
I wish you weren't dead, I wish I wasn't dead, I wish we wouldn't have to meet again in this awful, awful way. I tried my best to convince them I was innocent; I cried, I sobbed, I pleaded.
They didn't listen.
They said I was a psychopath,
some said I was a sociopath.
I didn't disagree, I didn't waste my breath.
Maybe I was? Maybe I wasn't?
But either or, does that make me a killer?
No.
So what if I wasn't compassionate? So what if I wasn't the most empathetic man? So what if I was cruel sometimes? That doesn't make me a murder, I'm just a boy-twisted, broken, and shattered. I feel things: I cry, I hurt. I make mistakes. Does that make me a murderer?
No, no, no, no.
I didn't kill you. I didn't murder you. I couldn't-I loved, loved, loved you. I loved you till my heart burned. They say I can't feel love, but I can. I can describe it to them, if they listened. If they let me speak. I could describe the flutter of my heart, or the sound of yours. I could describe love to them, if only they'd let me speak.
I'm not sure what happened.
Maybe it was you.
Maybe you had enough, you didn't want our baby to grow up with us as parents, and you did it. You said you would. You told me, you said it so many times, that you'd do it. I never thought you'd go through with it. I always thought they were empty threats.
Maybe you jumped.
Maybe it was a stranger?
A man that thought you were a beautiful, naive girl, walking the streets alone. You were alone, shaken, and scared. Maybe someone saw you. Thought you were easy pray and pushed you off the top of creek and into the murky water bellow. Maybe he thought you were something pretty he could sink his teeth into.
Maybe it was your brother; he was violent, he was a drinker, he was just as bad as me, if not worse, he was too close to you-not like a brother and sister, no, like a man and a woman.
I remember that time he drank till his face was red, and tried to kiss you on Christmas. You said he stared, licked his lips, and stared more. You told me things, things you both did. That you kissed when you were kissed, because your parents didn't love you, and you wanted to feel loved. You said your brother loved you, so you let him kiss you. But you didn't do it again.
I said these things in court, said what I thought.
Your brother screamed, called me a liar, said it wasn't true, they had to drag him out of the room-he always was so violent.
I'm not sure how you died, or why, I don't think I'll ever know.
But it's too late now, I'm dead by tomorrow.
I hope when they find these, when they find the confessions of my love for you. They'll see that I never lied, see that I wrote about the ugly and the pretty things. They'll see. They'll see that they got the wrong man. They'll find these, darling, they'll find them and maybe they'll find the man that killed you. It'll set up both free.
I guess you were right, I was rotten sometimes, too.
But not rotten enough to want to kill you, I swear.
I was rotten but not lethal.
I hope you can forgive me; because I forgive you.
I've decided my last words, I'll cry for us and say;
Not a bee, but a wasp.
FROM ME.
