I’ve been inside for almost ten years. I’ve gone through twelve cellmates. I’ve accrued enough money to buy a small country. I’ve earned another degree. No idea why other than because it was something to do.
Amador and Bianca have a great life that I’m only a little jealous of. They have two kids they bring to see me. His daughter, Ashlee, is almost five now. She has asked me to marry her when I get out. It feels kind of weird since she calls me Uncle Reyes and incest is frowned upon, but who am I to argue with true love? Stephen is still in diapers and giving them a run for their money.
Amador is worried about Kim. She doesn’t look well. I agree. Then again, she’s never looked well. I go see her often. I just don’t let her know I’m there. She barely eats enough to keep a chipmunk alive. She has become a recluse. Rarely going out. Rarely talking to anyone.
He tells me that there are Web sites dedicated to me. “You making those up yourself?”
I scowl and shake my head.
“There’s some crazy bitches out there, cabrón. Watch your ass.”
As much as I’m online, I’d never even thought to look, so the next time I’m on a computer, supposedly taking an online class on how to write your memoirs, I check it out. He’s right. There are fan pages dedicated to me. I shut them down in disgust. It’s like all those women who fill out applications to visit me. What the fuck for? They don’t even know me, and it’s not like we can date. I refuse them all.
But I got another postcard today. It’s the fourth one, I think. I didn’t really pay attention to them at first, but the last one I got caught my eye. They’re never signed, and they’re sent from all over New Mexico. But the last one had the words Wish you were here written on it. It wasn’t the writing that got my attention. It was the scent. Familiar. Sweet. Cheap. It set my mind racing.
But one thing is a given: I have to get out of prison, and I have to do it soon.