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A letter arrives 11 weeks into his sentence. Just over two months and suddenly he hears his name at mail-call. To say he’s surprised, would be the understatement of the decade. Who would ever send him a letter, and in prison no less. Who even remembers he exists? He’d cut ties with the only person that could have been considered a friend the moment he’d fled Guam. Panicking and ashamed.
For the tiniest moment half a thought flickers, that it’s from Aaron, reaching out to... what? Gloat from his own prison cell? Wish him the worst (as he no doubt deserves)? Scold him? Offer comfort? The bitterness of betrayal would seep through every word Aaron would have written. Liam shudders to think.
Wilkinson’s trial was ongoing as Liam’s took place. And while standing trial in a criminal court for assault and battery without any real line of defense was no picnic, Liam thanks his lucky stars he’d been spared being court-martialed for sodomy under the UCMJ law. He probably has Fajaro to thank for it. Somehow his interview during the investigation into Wilkinson hadn’t turned into an inquiry into his own conduct. Damned tattoo and all. His share was only to deal with a dishonorable discharge from the USMC and his own court case for the assault at the bar. Nearly killing a guy as a drunken outlet to the stress and rage and fear burning within him. Four years imprisonment and 150 hours of counseling and anger management was what he got. And the discharge. Not undeserving.
He doesn’t know how Wilkinson’s case ended. Didn’t have the privilege to follow it. The few details in a paper he eventually chanced to read mentioned ‘abuse of power’, ‘misconduct with subordinates’ and ‘multiple cases’. He’d stopped reading after that. He had enough time in his cell to imagine what that meant. To wallow in his feeling of betrayal and foolishness and mourn what he had thought his relationship with Aaron had been.
The thing was, that no matter what came to light, some experiences couldn’t be taken away from him. Some things forged him, in him, into what he’d become and the way he sees the world. He can’t lump it all into something as bitter as regret. His violent outburst — that cost him his freedom and everything he’d worked for, life as he’d known it and a half-stable future? — That he regretted bitterly with every fiber of his being. But never his time with Aaron. Some moments he cherished. Some feelings he was grateful for. Some decisions he would carry with him on his skin, and have to charge with a new meaning. Sometimes a thought sneaks in, that it might be time to change the record; Self-hate having got him (to a prison cell shaped) nowhere fast.
And now, just like that, he’s sitting with a letter in his hand. Loopy handwriting greeting him with a kindness he’d long lost hope for.
Sir,
I’m not sure how to begin this. Our superiors ordered us to write a letter before we deploy. A moral exercise, I suppose, to have something to tether us back to reality. Or home. Or whatever.
I don’t really have anyone else I’d like to write to.I chose you.I don’t know if, when and how you’ll receive this. If you’ll be glad for it or pissed. If you’ll even read this or toss it as is into the bin. But I thought, maybe. Maybe there is enough of a chance that you will.
They say it only takes one person. That one person’s faith in you is enough to change a man’s life. I don’t know if you have that for yourself. But you changed mine, so the least I can do is return the favor. What I’m trying to say is, you are not alone, Sir. You have at least one person. And you can write me back if you want. I promise not to toss your letters (not without reading them at least).
I don’t know how to sign this off,
Pvt. Cameron Cope