Dear Officer Hardy (This is a Metaphor)

The letters had been pouring in for months.

When I first got here, I got at least 100 a day. I read a few, maybe ten, and became so utterly revolted that I threw up all over my bed. It took a few hours to clean it up. After that night, I'd only read one or two a week—when I felt lonely enough to stoop that low.

Most of them were hate mail. Nothing I'd be willing to write, much less repeat. I'd occasionally find one written to me by a true crime extremist, usually a young woman begging for a reply or a friendship. Somehow that disgusted me even more.

By now, I probably had over 5,000 unopened letters stashed somewhere. I often prayed that these people would put as much heart into writing kinder letters to some of the other inmates; the lonely ones. I've heard there are some programs out there for that kind of thing. My good friend Brandon hadn't heard anything from the outside world for long before he passed. Hell, I'd would've written him an anonymous letter myself if he didn't know my handwriting by heart.

Still, I guess hate is fueled more than generosity. People would rather spend their energy to bash on a murderer than give company to a father, friend, and son who got put in for a marijuana charge. Can I blame them? I felt the same before this whole ordeal.

Letters. I haven't written one in a long time. This may be my first one since April, Officer Hardy. Do you feel special? (That's sarcasm, by the way. I'm not sure if that would've gone through well in writing. My social cues are off.)

When I first got sent here, I wrote a fair amount out to my wife and son. I haven't been visited once, nor called. I don't know why I thought a letter would've gotten a reply. It's hard for hope to die.

With the execution scheduled for Tuesday, I may write them once more. I don't know if they're reading them or not but I have a lot to say before I go. All I can do in here is think. You know?

I won't keep telling them I'm innocent. Maybe they know and it hurts to communicate knowing that I'm going through this despite my clean hands. Or, the painful alternative, they believe the mighty hand of the accuser. That's usually the way things go here in the Land of the Free.

But something convinced me to write this to you, Officer Hardy. With the execution scheduled for Tuesday, I've been lonelier than usual. With desperate loneliness comes desperate measures. I've been reading letters again.

When I first got here, I got at least 100 letters a day. This morning, I was told I got 919 today. With the execution scheduled for Tuesday, I guessed it's refueled something in the people.

I read four in a row which had some sort of disgusting undertone; morbid fascination, hate, or something of the sort. Thank the Lord I didn't stop reading. I almost did. If I let the devil convince me not to continue, I wouldn't have read Miss Marie Miles' letter.

Miss Marie Miles was simple in her purpose of writing. She believed in my innocence along with, supposedly, thousands of other people who are protesting for my salvation. I'll attach her letter to mine so that you too can feel the compassion that surges through her words.

I̶ ̶d̶o̶n̶'̶t̶ ̶t̶e̶l̶l̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶ ̶t̶h̶i̶s̶ ̶w̶i̶t̶h̶ ̶m̶u̶c̶h̶ ̶h̶o̶p̶e̶ ̶i̶n̶ ̶m̶y̶ ̶h̶e̶a̶r̶t̶.̶ ̶A̶s̶ ̶h̶a̶r̶d̶ ̶a̶s̶ ̶h̶o̶p̶e̶ ̶i̶s̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶d̶i̶e̶,̶ ̶i̶t̶'̶s̶ ̶b̶e̶e̶n̶ ̶a̶ ̶l̶o̶n̶g̶ ̶t̶i̶m̶e̶ ̶s̶t̶u̶c̶k̶ ̶b̶e̶t̶w̶e̶e̶n̶ ̶b̶r̶i̶c̶k̶.̶

I don't tell you this with hope that by Wednesday, I'll be cleared. In fact, I'm prepared to rejoin with God. I tell you this with a different type of hope. A hope for humanity.

Tell me this, Officer Hardy. Months ago, I was thrown behind bars with little evidence against me and an X was carved on my forehead. Now, while that X is soon to become a literal target (this is a metaphor, I hope you understand as I simply don't have the energy to think of a better one), there are people out there—real people, not these bullshit capitalist robots with powdered wigs glued to their heads or badges pinned to their cold hearts—who are done being the bugs beneath their feet.

I'll say it for the last time here, since it needs to be relieved off my heavy chest and I refuse to bring this burden with me to the electric chair. No, I didn't commit the crime. I am innocent I am innocent I AM INNOCENT and this was a case of The Powerhouse wins (that's a metaphor you sure as hell can understand).

But I'm comfortable this way. Now I understand my purpose here. I'm a name. Add it to the never ending scroll of the falsely accused. Did you know that at least 4% of death row inmates are/have been wrongfully executed? Isn't that funny? I find that funny. Not the ha-ha kind of funny but the other funny. You get it. Imagine if 4% of all people who got surgeries died during the operation. 4% of the time, something went wrong and you died. Didn't you get a knee surgery last month? Ha-ha.

I'm comfortable knowing there's even just a chance that one day my name will spark an outrage in the people. I'm in the same shoes of a countless pile of names. Names. Look them up if you have the time, Officer Hardy, as I know your schedule is rather busy but it would mean a lot to me and the poor souls I've had the pleasure to stand in the shoes of so if you could make time I urge you to look them up.

Please take my letter as you will. I don't expect you'll read it. If you do read it, consider keeping it in your wallet for some time. Hang it up somewhere. I'm a human person, Officer Hardy, and it must mean something to you that I've spent so much time speaking to you. Did you know that if someone is holding you at gunpoint, you're supposed to stare them in the eyes? It forces them to acknowledge your humanity. Isn't that an interesting fact? Do you think if I were to look into the eyes of everyone who had part in putting me in this situation, while my arms were strapped down and my time was coming close, they'd hang their head in shame? Or do you consider that for these capitalistic robots, their ability to acknowledge humanity has been skewed?

Just a thought, Officer Hardy. I don't mean to get political. I don't mean to make you uncomfortable. It's just, my execution is scheduled for Tuesday. I'm a tad grumpy.

There's not much else I'd like to tell you, but I do apologize for any shift in tone I've had during this letter. It's funny though, as ever since I read Miss Marie Miles' letter, these last few days have had a whole new tone. I suppose you'll feel it too if you're ever a part of my 4% (but what can I say? You have an advantage where you are in status, but a man can dream).

I suppose I'll end my letter here, Officer Hardy. Thank you for taking the time to read it, if you've gotten here. I must've given you a lot to think about so I hope you treat yourself to a nice ice cream when your shift is over tonight. My favorite was strawberry but since I've gotten here, food has felt second nature. I liked to go to Val's Ice Cream down on Main with my son. If you sit down at the outdoor picnic table farthest from the building and sit on the side that faces the street, maybe you'll see my name carved in there. The name beneath mine is my son's. I could be wrong through. It has been a long time. The tables could be gone by now. Val's Ice Cream could be gone by now.

Maybe stop by and say hello—or goodbye. Maybe write a letter and slip it into my room, although make sure to get it to me before Tuesday, as my execution is scheduled for then. I do enjoy nice letters.

Sincerely,

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