Page 4 of Our Secrets and Scars

You’re kinda like my journal.

You know you can unload on me too, right? I know I’m younger than you and probably can’t offer a lot of advice about surviving in prison, but my dad has always said that I’m wise. I’m a good listener, too. Or reader, whatever.

So, go ahead. Try me. I can be your journal too.

Love, Kinsley

P.S. Is that guard still bothering you?

RETURN ADDRESS

Inmate #7492

Idaho State Correctional Institution

13500 Pleasant Valley Rd.

Caldwell, ID 83634

Kinz,

I’m writing to you from my little wooden desk in my eight-foot shared prison cell, and no, I’m not rolling my eyes.

It’s been four years since we sent our first letters, and you’re still worrying about me judging you? You’ve confessed worse to me before. Remember that letter you wrote last year? You told me how much your soul craves submission. That you’re sick of the thoughts inside your head, and you wish for someone who knows how to quiet them. I didn’t judge you then, and I don’t judge you now.

Give yourself some grace and grant yourself permission to feel sadness for yourself. You might not have died that day, but that doesn’t mean you came out of it unscathed. I wish you didn’t feel guilty about it. You have no need to.

And anyway, problems aren’t comparable. We’ve all got them. No one’s standing there with a clipboard deciding whose problems are worse or ranking them in order of severity. My problems are different from your problems, but that doesn’t make them more important. So for you to think that I’d belittle you for getting upset because of what that jackass said, then you’ve got it all wrong. I can’t tell you how much my fists ache to punch him for what he said to you. I wish that I could dry your tears and convince you how fucking wrong he was.

Because having a painful past doesn’t make you unworthy of love, and neither do your scars. I wish I could make you believe that, but I know the chances are you won’t listen. Cruel words have a habit of sticking to the soul more than kind ones, I know. But scars don’t make a person ugly. Think about it. No one’s flawless, are they? Even before you got your burns, did you think you were perfect? If I’ve learned anything about you in the years that we’ve been writing to each other, I’m guessing you didn’t. If you did, you probably wouldn’t have cared so much about wanting to be popular and all that homecoming queen, head cheerleader, shallow bullshit. I’m not saying that to be an asshole, I swear. But it’s true. If you loved yourself, it just wouldn’t have mattered so much. Maybe I’m wrong. I don’t know, that’s just the way I see it.

I just think that scars are beautiful in a badass sort of way. Scars are stories scribed on the skin to remind you of what you’ve survived. How strong you are, how much you’ve been through, you know? They’re cracks in your perfection that let the light come in. And I’m not just talking about physical scars, but the ones that are etched into your soul too. My scars that aren’t visible are just as painful as the ones that are. And you know what? I hate a lot of things about myself, Kinsley, but my scars aren’t one of them.

Maybe one day I’ll tell you how I got them. But for now, I’m happy listening to your stories. All of them. Honestly, I’m kind of shocked that you feel comfortable enough to share them with me. So, yeah, Kinz, I’ll be your journal. It’d be an honor.

Always, Fletcher

RETURN ADDRESS

Kinsley Garcia

1152 Llamarada Blvd.

Twin Falls, ID 83301

Dear Fletcher,

You know, I was kinda pissed when I first read your letter. You called me shallow and it hurt. Maybe it shouldn’t have, I don’t know, but it did. And I know that you’ve never been one to soften your words for me, and I’m so grateful for that, but sometimes the truth is hard to hear. Especially from someone whose opinion means so much to me. Out of everyone in my life, Fletcher, you’re the last person I would ever want to think badly of me.

But I read the letter back, and I get it now. Maybe you’re right. Before the accident, the most important thing to me was my popularity. Guess I found the validation in it that I craved so badly. And even though I know that probably wasn’t healthy, I can’t pretend I wouldn’t do anything to be that Kinsley again. The one with the pretty face, who had people who cared about the things she did and what she had to say.

Maybe if I got a chance to be that girl again, I’d be different. I’d be better. I’d stand up for the people Shane bullied; I’d try harder in school, maybe even run for student body president or something. I’d put as much effort into being a good person as I did making sure my lip gloss always looked shiny.

I’d be better, Fletcher, I swear. I’d be so much better if I could just be that girl again.

My sister was never like me, you know? Bex didn’t care about any of the superficial stuff. I used to beg her to get her nails done with me, but she was happy with the midnight blue polish that chipped the same day she painted them. She never wore makeup either, and she didn’t care about the clothes she wore or the things that were said about her in the school halls. She knew who she was, whereas I never have. It’s weird. We were identical twins, but we couldn’t have been more different. If I was fall, then she was spring.

I think she always kinda hated me for shining brighter than her. But she shouldn’t have. Whatever light I had was artificial. I was blindingly bright, sure, but it made me hard to look at, whereas Bex glowed like sunlight. She didn’t even need to try. It was just natural for her. And I envied her for it so bad. She was the better one, and everyone knew it. Shane even told me once that he’d have gone for Bex first if he thought she’d have given him the time of day. I can’t even blame him for that. Even our parents loved her more than me. They’d never admit it, of course, but I swear that sometimes they wish it was me who died instead of her.

---