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‘‘You’ll be the one to send it,’’ I stated. ‘‘I still don’t understand how this works.’’
I didn’t see it — I could feel Sierra rolling her eyes.
‘‘Just write it by tomorrow.’’ She hopped off the stool and kissed my cheek. ‘‘I’m sending mine, too.’’
I didn’t know the details of her romance with the inmate she’d been talking to, but I felt relieved when she told me that it was only for criminals with minor criminal offenses. In other words, my letter wouldn’t be sent to a serial killer.
That made me pause.
The idea I got was horrendous.
The mere thought of sending a letter, with my personal details and pictures, made me tremble. Yet, I couldn’t quite figure out whether it was pleasant or not. On some levels, I was just as disturbed as the characters I am writing about.
I shook my head.
Don’t go there, Storm, I chanted. Leave those fantasies locked up.
I couldn’t stop the constant yawning.
The trash can beneath my work desk was filled with half-written papers that were crumbled together. I was on my last paper, and just stared at it for the past two hours. Tapping my pen against the wooden desk, I leaned against my palm.
From time to time, I glanced at the picture in front of me.
Sierra helped me pick an inmate.
Although his crime wasn’t listed, he was set to be released in two months. The man was twenty-six, tall, with blonde hair and kind-looking eyes. He had a gorgeous smile and no matter how many times Sierra asked me if I was sure — I chose him.
He was exactly my type.
What made him stand out in my eyes was his profession. Just like me, he was an author. He mainly wrote horror novels, and I hadn’t realized it before, but I had a couple of them on my shelf. I was a fan of his work, and that made me itch to pick him.
Not only was I struggling with what to say and how to say it, but I also struggled choosing which photos to send out. I had a few that I liked, but two of them had a more revealing outfit than I was comfortable sending, and the other few were just pictures of my face.
Sierra suggested one of each, and I still couldn’t decide.
Why did this bother me so much? Why did I care?
This was only an experiment, one to pass the time. An opportunity for me to knock this writer's block off its feet, and make sure it never returns.
So why was I being self-conscious of myself?
I wasn’t the prettiest woman in the world, but I was fairly attractive. I’d dated, gotten compliments and not once had I been insecure.
Why now?
Before an answer could be formed in my mind, another yawn escaped. I straightened my back, enjoying the crack it made. I’d been sitting behind this desk for hours. I glanced at the watch above my desk, eyes widening once I saw that it was almost four in the morning.
Okay, I’d just channel my inner author and write something quickly.
And I’d just put two pictures. I didn’t care that I was half-naked in the first one. It shouldn’t be a problem, since he wouldn’t have my return address, only a PO box where he’d send his reply if he was interested. So, I was safe. If he turned out to be some sort of a creep, I’d ignore him and never send another letter.
Easy peasy.
Or so I thought.
I had rambled on for a couple of paragraphs, until I started writing about myself, and asking him a couple of questions. Although I revealed some information, it wasn’t enough for him to track me down.
I didn’t have any personal social media, and all of my writer accounts had my pen name, not my real name, so the chances of him finding me were slim. If anything, I had no issues moving again.
