The letter came a week ago, and I still haven’t been able to open it.

It was mixed up in a pile of junk mail that I’d been carrying over to the trash can, and it would have gotten tossed if it hadn’t suddenly slipped out and fell to the floor.  I tossed what was in my hands first before picking it up, and once I got that far the only reason I bothered to take a closer look at it was because of what was stamped on the back of the envelope:

This letter comes from a correctional institution.

Then:

Central California Women’s Facility.  Chowchilla, CA

I knew it was from her, and I froze.  The truth was, it had been nearly three months since I was abducted, and I had been doing better...a lot better.  I was slowly starting to put it behind me.  I had convinced myself that she was as evil as he was, thanks to giving into some professional help.  At times, I even caught myself in a smile, because I was starting to feel like myself again.  

At times, when I was surrounded by my amazing friends, when I was able to smile, laugh, and remember only the good things in my life, the kidnapping...her...all seemed like a distant memory.  

I’d been in talks with my label and management once the initial shock of what happened started to subside.  They were eager to get me back in the studio so I could start progressing on the album I’d promised them shortly before I was taken, even though I told them I wasn’t sure I was up for it anymore.  But after a few meaningful conversations with Timberland, and my choreographer, Marty, I knew I had to get back in there to start working on the project we’d been so excited about only months before.  

I owed it to myself, and everybody else in my life, to get back on top again, and I knew I could.  I knew I still had the talent, and the drive, to be as successful as I’d always been before Charlie kidnapped me.  I also knew if I was working, I would become so immersed in what I was doing that there would be no time to dwell on what happened.

That was good for me and everybody involved in my life.  Especially...Shelly.  We started seeing more of each other once I started talking to my shrink and getting my head back together, thanks to some careful pushing from my closest friends.  While we’re only at the most basic level of being friendly with each other, I have a feeling it could quickly grow into something more if I put some effort into the relationship.

Right now though, rebuilding that relationship has been put on hold for reasons that only I can understand.

I finally cracked about a month before that letter showed up, started to talk to my shrink a little more, and then...a little bit more.  Before long, I told him everything down to the smallest detail, and he was finally able to start helping me cope with not only the kidnapping and Charlie, but my feelings for Samantha as well.  I was forced to agree that I was suffering from Stockholm Syndrome, and when the fog was finally lifted from that part of my brain, I couldn’t deny that I’d been brainwashed by her, and it had changed me for the worse.  I was able to breathe a little bit easier after I got myself over that first hurdle, because I was starting to understand what was really wrong with me, and how I could overcome all of it, so I could get my life back.

Of course, none of it would have happened without my friends and family there to give me the extra push I needed to get my ass in gear.  They had a little intervention with me in my living room after Trace had come by the house one day.  I’d been having a melt down in my closet, and of course that was where he found me. At the time, nobody knew I’d been doing that besides Eric, and when my best friend found out about it, he didn’t hesitate to call our parents, and camp out at my house to keep a close eye on me while they all made planes to come out to Los Angeles.  He didn’t let me out of his site, slept on an air mattress in my bedroom to ensure I wouldn’t be able to sleep in my closet anymore.  Rachael came too, took over the downstairs and monitored my actions when Trace had something else to take care of.  I was trapped and being watched, and I hadn’t been so angry in a really long time.

Looking back on it now, I know there was no other alternative.

Trace blocked off access to my closet by installing a double set of heavy duty padlocks and latches on the  outside of the door, and despite how often I tried to get them open, I just couldn’t do it.  That meant I was terrified during the day, and my nightmares were incredible.  I’d wake up screaming, and Trace would sit there with me on the bed as I cried into him like a child.  I couldn’t hide what I was going through anymore, and yeah, I felt more than embarrassed when the sun rose, but he took it in stride.  He told me he would do whatever he had to do to help me, no matter how painstaking or embarrassing it might have been, and I guess I always knew he would.

I was bitter about his methods at first, though.  Really bitter, because I wanted to handle my pain in my own way.  Trace wasn’t having it though.  He told me I was better than that.  That I had a lot of life to live, and I hadn’t come so far simply to be destroyed by a couple of criminals.  He said living in my closet wasn’t helping anything.  It was just giving me a way to avoid my problems, and when my shrink found out about it, he agreed.

I wouldn’t speak to Trace or Rachael after they came and took charge of my life like that, and it was only when the rest of our family finally arrived at my house that I was forced to pay attention to what they were saying, or face being sent away to a place that would force me to cope and talk about what happened with strangers.  I still hadn’t talked to my shrink about it at that point, and my friends and family were fed up with my choices.  I yelled a lot during that meeting.  I told them they didn’t get it, that they couldn’t get it.  That I loved her and she was gone...

That was a mistake, and I think my mother, to this day, is still terrified that those words came out of my mouth.

It was like TV. After my little outburst, my shrink went around the room and had my family and friends tell me how much my uncooperative attitude regarding getting myself some help was hurting them.  I rolled my eyes and wouldn’t look at Rachael, Trace, or my Dad as they spoke about their feelings.  At that point it hadn’t hit me yet.  I was still selfish, I was only thinking about myself, how terrified I still was, and the fact that I would probably never see her again.

But then it was my mom’s turn, and as I sat there, watching her cry so hard as she told me the only thing she wanted was for me to get better, reality started to rear it’s ugly head.  The emotions hit me right in the gut, I could barely breathe and then...

Then I broke down, and cried in front of them all.  It was something I’d held back, deep inside of me, until Trace found me cowering in my closet that day.  I wasn’t allowing myself to heal, and it wasn’t right.  They gave me my options as my mom hugged me and I cried into her.  I could either stay at my house, live my normal lifestyle, and see my shrink cooperatively every afternoon, go to a group home and be forced to take part in group rehabilitation therapy, or be shunned by them all until I decided to change.

My decision, needless to say, wasn’t a difficult one.

Things slowly started to improve after that.  The more I talked to my shrink, the more pressure seemed to be lifted off my shoulders.  After two weeks of intensive therapy with him, I was able to go out to dinner with Trace and a few of our other friends.  Sure, it was just downtown, twenty minutes from the house, but hell...it felt good, it felt normal.  

And I started to forget.  

After that first dinner, my life began to resume the normal social pattern it always had.  I went to the beach with my friends, I went shopping, I started talking to Shelly again, I went to parties at my friends houses, and more importantly, I started working.  I’d been in a dark place for so long, that the creativity seemed to explode out of my pen when I was better and ready to write.  The album is coming along amazing, better than I could have ever hoped for in the beginning.  We wrote the first single in the middle of the night.  Only a couple of people have heard the semi finished product, but we know we have a winner. I was so excited with how everything was going, I started to think that my life was almost back to normal.

Until that letter came.

My birthday was three days away, which meant my friends had been plotting something for weeks, even though I told them I didn’t want a party.  I’d been a little edgy as it was, thinking they were going to drag me to a club and I would be terrified the entire night.  My shrink told me that I needed to face my fear of that, teach myself that there was no harm in going out dancing with my friends.  I just didn’t feel ready though, even though Eric and Tiny would both be there, ready to annihilate anyone would looked even remotely suspicious.  

I was standing in my kitchen, still frozen in place as I stared down at the envelope in my hand, when I heard Trace come up from behind me. It was Super Bowl Sunday, all of my friends were at the house watching the game, and until that moment I had been enjoying myself with them.  I’d only gone into the kitchen to grab another bag of chips, but became frustrated when I realized that pile of junk mail had been sitting on my counter for more than a week, so I decided to toss it.  

And my life changed, again.

“Justin,” he laughed.  “You okay?”

I shoved the unopened letter in my pocket, and turned around, flashing him a brilliant, but fake, smile.  “Yeah, just getting rid of some junk mail.”

“What’s that?”  He chuckled, pointing to the letter I’d shoved into my pocket.

I cursed myself on the inside.  Trace wasn’t stupid.  He’d seen me.  “Letter from Jonathan.”

“That kid still writes snail mail letters?”

I didn’t reply, just walked past him, and when he didn’t push the fact that I was acting strange, I knew I had gotten away with hiding it from him, and everybody else.  Deep down, I knew it was wrong to keep it from them all.  They’d worked hard to help me get better, and there I was, about to take a step backward by reading that letter.  Later that night, after my friends had left, I tried so hard to throw it out, to rip it up, but I just...I couldn’t.

Part of me was curious.

Part of me...part of me wanted to know if she was doing okay.

I hid it in a sock drawer as my birthday festivities commenced that weekend.  My friends had indeed booked a party for me, but at a favorite bar of ours, rather than an elite night club.  It was nice, private.  I was able to spend much needed time with my close circle of friends and family and knew I needed it.  We flew out to Memphis the following week, and celebrated my birthday a second time with my Grandparents, and the rest of my extended family, who seemed pleased with how well I was doing.  

Everything was great.  I even forgot about the letter while I was there, because I was so busy catching up with everybody.

I got home yesterday.

That letter has been calling out to me from the sock drawer since last night.  It’s bad.  Shelly convinced me to go to dinner with her tomorrow night.  We haven’t been alone since the first time she came to my house and I practically kicked her out.  I know this outing is going to be a lot more personal than the ones we’ve been on so far.  We haven’t started to talk about us yet, and I know that the topic will definitely come up.  It’s not a bad thing.  It’s something I need to deal with, but...I didn’t count on her coming back into my life right now.

What do I do?

I pick up my phone, ready to call Trace and ask him.  I almost push “send” before I stop myself.  No.  

No, he can’t know about this.

Nobody can.

My dogs snap to attention and stare at me as I go to the drawer and pull it out.  I sit back down on the bed with it, and run my fingers over the slightly wrinkled edges of the envelope for a few seconds, contemplating what my next move should be.  

I close my eyes, take a long breath, hearing my dogs whimpering softly in the background because they’re confused.

Then I’m tearing the envelope open, fighting off the strong voice inside of me that is begging me not to go through with it.  I pull out the thin piece of paper inside next, grab my reading glasses off the night stand, and slip them on before I start to read.  My eyes seem to take it in all at once, and I have to read the first paragraph a few times before I’m able to really comprehend it.

Justin,

I want you to know that I will always care about you.  In another time and place, if none of this had ever happened, if it had been like you said and I was at that club for pleasure, I know I would have stuck by you, because you made me happier than anybody else in my life ever had.  You were right, that was the real me you saw that night.  The person I wish I could have been for you from the beginning.  But I couldn’t be that person, because of the drugs, and because of everything he did to me.

I also want to apologize.  I know it doesn’t matter.  What’s done is done, and the things you went through...I can’t change that now, but I just wanted you to know that I hate what I let happen, and I’m so glad that you got out, and got back to your life.  

I hope you’re well.  I hope you can sleep at night, and I really hope that you’re enjoying your life.

I’d lie to you about how things are here, but what’s the point?  If you’ve made it this far into the letter, I guess you might care enough to know what’s going on with me.  The truth is, prison doesn’t just suck, it’s completely horrific.  I hope you never have to come to prison, and I hope none of your friends or family ever have to either.  The truth is, everyday is a struggle to stay alive here.  I’ve learned how to cope, fallen in with some people who can offer me protection and supplies for a price, but that price...it’s killing me more and more every day. To think that I’ll have to endure it for 30 years is heart wrenching, and while I know I deserve this type of torture because of what happened to you, I just don’t think I can do it.  I’m not that strong, and I think the only way I’ll be able to be at peace with everything is if I die.

I guess I’m really writing this to say goodbye, or...give you an explanation as to why I want to take my life.  I wanted you to know it’s nothing you did.  You’ve probably been the one person in my life that gave me a sense of hope, even if it was just for a short time.  I’ll always love you for that, Justin.  So do me a favor and make sure you make your life the best it can be.  Don’t live in fear, don’t think about what he did to you.  Put it behind you.

I know you can do it.

I love you always,

Samantha

I place the letter down on the mattress, and let it all seep in for a few moments.  Then I realize there isn’t a question about what I have to do next.  All the therapy, all the support from my friends and family to put her out of my mind, to get over what happened, none of it matters now. I...God, I just know...I still care about Samantha.

Maybe I never stopped caring, not really.  I put my friends and family’s opinions of my emotions first, because they mean everything to me...and I was convinced Sam was gone.

That Bill was right when he said she never really cared.

But she does care.  That letter is all the proof I need, and...and I have to save her.

Save her like she saved me.

I dial so fast, having had the number memorized from the moment he gave me the card.  He told me to call him if I ever need him, even though my case had been closed.

And I need his help now, more than ever.

Because I love her.

“Los Angeles FBI.”

I stare down at the card, realizing I never bothered to learn his last name before this moment.  “I need to speak with Agent Garner.”