Yours for Eternity: A Love Story on Death Row (14 page)

I can’t believe I’m going to France on Friday—I’m going to have Stuart take lots of pictures so that I may send them to you. The whole time I’m going to be wishing you were with me—you and I would have
so
much fun roaming the streets til dawn—Paris is
so
beautiful!

One day my love, we will go
everywhere
together and we will go absolutely
nowhere
together—except stay in our room, with our bed and some water to drink.

*

I have a personal question to ask . . .

Are you circumcised?

I don’t know how you feel about that—I hope you will let me know—but I am
totally
against it. It’s not fair.

I don’t understand why people constantly have to fix things that don’t need to be fixed.

If we have a boy—no way—I would
never
let that be done to him.

*

I’m in bed. Ready to go to sleep. Do
you
sleep in pajamas? Please answer this and other important questions posed in this letter. Let me think of more.

I can’t resist the typical—at what age did you lose your virginity? Was it fun?

I was 19. In a very rickety Victorian house in Morgantown, WV. Not memorable except for the house!

*

I completely adore you. I
love
to think of you growing up. In some ways I wish we
would’ve
grown up together.

Oh, well . . . next time.

Yours forever and ever,

Lorri

September 12, 1996

My Dearest Lorri:

Tonight, when we were talking about making cloaks for each other, I already had in my mind exactly what yours would look like. It would be floor-length, with a hood, and it must be velvet. I think you would look beautiful in either emerald or forest green. It has to be trimmed in gold. Well, I’ll make two. You have to have one made of red velvet, too, to go with your red velvet dress. You can make me one, too, but since I have no idea what it will be like, or what it will go with, I want to make one myself, like I’ve always wanted but never got around to making. I want one just like Raistlin’s—it must be of the blackest velvet, with a hood, gold-trimmed and floor-length. Just like Raistlin’s. I would
always
wear the one you made, I would wear it until it was nothing but rags, but I want the black one to be able to hold, breathe through it, feel it against my face. But we definitely
have
to make them for each other. That will be so wonderful. Then we will have the cloaks, the bed—and we have to have two glasses—goblets—that no one can drink out of except us. It’s going to be great.

*

. . . I am doing an interview tomorrow, and I am going to tell them that I want copies, so that I can send them to you. I should have them in about a week. Also, when Burk and Kathy come down on Halloween, it is now cleared for them to do an official interview for the
Rat & Mouse Gazette
. Actually, there’s not going to be an
interview, it’s just an excuse for them to be able to bring cameras in, so that they can get some recent pictures—and I’ll send them to you. They are supposed to be really good, because the guy they are bringing to take pictures is some kind of model photographer.

O.K., after I read this one, I won’t read any more about George Sand. And I won’t drink any more coffee. It’s making me sick anyway. I love the taste of it, but my body just can’t handle it. And the more I read about George Sand, the angrier I become at her. She was so cruel. She killed Chopin, and left him to die alone, crying out for her. That’s just too much to handle. I can’t stand reading it, but I love the fact that his love for her never died. Maybe they’re together again now. I don’t know.

I love you forever,

D.

September 12, 1996

My dearest Damien:

I had a wonderful night because of you—I
loved
talking about fevers and making clothes for each other. I do feel sorry for you, though; I have an image of what the clothes I would make for you would look like. I can imagine getting the pattern for a shirt mixed up with the first-floor plan of a house—I would be sewing a house!!—building a pair of pants!!

Oh, I don’t want to be away from you this weekend! Damien. What a spoiled brat I am—able to go to Paris and I am
complaining
about it!! But I’m complaining because any day I can’t hear your voice is torture.

I have to go back to the letter about my question to you—about who you surround yourself with . . . and
you
said you had created illusions in your life to pacify yourself—well, I don’t think you created illusions—I think your life and what you believed were very much reality—like you said—you sat there like a king with one eye open, watching people pass by in your life (by the way—I
loved
your description of that)—you don’t or shouldn’t take notice until something
does
knock you flat so to speak—I think it’s wonderful—at least you
know
when it happens! Most people don’t even
know
it. That’s what I mean about us being so fortunate—we both just kept taking the next step—and the way was already completely paved for us . . . we just had to take steps.

And I must say—my thoughts really are pretty simple or at least I
think so—and I suppose it doesn’t make me mad to think of these things—because it is almost innate in me—I’ve always thought this way—since I can remember—and it has if anything helped me
maintain
my sanity—to know there was something else, waiting for me—
you
—and eventually I would find it.

And when you write letters like that it makes me love you more—everything you do makes me love you more.

*

Is there any chance you will have contact visits by November? Just checking.

I love you. Terribly.

Lorri

September 17, 1996

My Dearest Lorri,

You remember the guy I was telling you about today, Michael, the one who pointed at me and said, “You’re dying”? Well, he’s a lot stronger than I even let on. It’s not possible for me to impress on you what he is like, unless you have been around him yourself. It’s like he does and says everything backward or opposite. Like when he told me I was dying, within a few hours my fever was gone, and I began to get better. It’s as if his body is comprised entirely of doorknobs and kite string. I’ve only ever really talked to him once, but ever since I’ve been here, he’s always called me “The Wicked Witch of West Memphis.” He was giving me some lecture about how I was only using
¹
/
₃
of myself. And he’s always laughing and waving those bony arms and knobby hands above his head as if he’s dancing to a drumbeat that only he can hear. If voodoo were embodied in a person, he would be that person. He reeks of the deepest part of Africa, and no white man could take that out of him. His execution date is very near; he only has a few more months left at the most. I get the feeling that he could save himself if he wanted to, but he doesn’t want to. And when I look at him, I know beyond a doubt that even in death, under 6 feet of earth, his body will still be doing that same jingling, jangling dance, becoming one with death, to dance forever. Anyway, for the past couple of weeks I’ve felt drawn to him, as if there is something he wants to tell me or ask me or something. I don’t know. Why does all this strange stuff have to
happen to me? It must be nice to be “normal.” I have to say, this guy makes me very nervous and I don’t like being around him at all. If Luis thinks I’m a “loud weetch” then he would have to cover his ears if he ever saw this guy.

*

You were 19 when you lost your virginity? I believe I was 14, or somewhere in that area. It was horrible, a nightmare. Plus, I had about a gallon of adrenaline running through me, so I was sore and stiff for a week, as if I had run a marathon. It’s funny now that I can think back on it, but at the time there wasn’t anything funny about it. It was a nightmare.

Yours for eternity,

D.

October 1, 1996

My dearest Damien:

Talking about being jealous tonight—and I said something like it’s not in my nature to feel this way—well—that’s absolutely untrue—it must very much so be in my nature—because I feel it
so
strongly with you—I really feel I must stop myself and remember what you say—that you are mine—that I never have to worry about anyone taking you away or anyone coming between us. But sometimes I become overwhelmed by these thoughts—I can’t bear the thought of you being with anyone else—
I know
what you tell me and I have complete faith in you—but it’s a maddening thought—and I know your effect on people.

*

It’s funny, I just never thought of you being jealous about anything that had to do with me. Sometimes I would feel weak and think—he’s
so
well-adjusted about this—I
know
I need to calm down about it—and maybe I will. But I know I will always be protective. By the way, it makes me feel ecstatic that you are jealous—it makes me want you
so
badly.

When you were explaining the loss of your virginity—I nearly cried—I wanted it to be
me
—I would have
loved
your adrenaline—I know you said it was horrible—but . . . I would’ve loved it.

*

Sometimes I do believe you say things just to hear my response—because I know you don’t believe that I or any of the people (many)
that believe in you are going to let you die. Secondly, even though we are in the age of proof, of science—you also know things are still at work—forces and beliefs and magick and unseen but oh-so-strange things—how can you say something like what you said? When I know you don’t believe it, Damien.

I love you so very much,

Lorri

October 2, 1996

My Dearest Lorri,

I just want to tell you once more how much I love it that you are jealous. I love it so much. I guess that sounds a little strange, doesn’t it? But I can’t help it, because it lets me know that you feel so strongly that I am yours, that I do belong to you, and that you are not willing to lose even the smallest bit of my attention. It feels as if this jealousy is something that I need from you, and it makes me very, very happy that you feel that way. And there’s nothing weak about it at all. I don’t believe that. Not at all. But it’s another one of those things that are double-edged, because I feel it too. Like when you tell me old stories or when I even think of some guy trying to get your attention, the first impulse that comes to me is of wanting to mangle him. And I don’t feel weak about it at all. I think it’s pleasant.

Good night beautiful one,

Damien

October 3, 1996

Dearest Damien,

For as many ways as we are alike—we are different—and I love it. Talking to you on the phone tonight was hilarious—when I asked you about “Matilda”—what a reaction!! My goodness. Well, we’re going to have to come to some understanding. The way I look at it—if I have to carry the little thing around for nine months, practically killing myself giving birth to it—then I should be allowed to name it just about anything I want. Now, what do you have to say about that?

Well . . . OK. I’m still open to negotiations. I’m sure we’ll come up with something.

*

We must never try to make one another jealous—not all the time, anyway—because I think that is cruel—some things you just can’t help—like if you are telling a story—like the Italian woman, or me telling you about Neil—but this is a crazy, reckless, all-consuming emotion—jealousy—I can see why it goes hand in hand with love—sometimes. But it is also very important that we keep in mind that we needn’t be jealous. Damien, you have no reason ever to be.

*

I want to know how you feel about this—every aspect of it—being jealous or knowing I am jealous—making me jealous, me making you jealous.

*

How can someone (me) endure all of these emotions? It’s wonderfully crazy—and I haven’t even gotten to touch you yet, for God’s sake!! What will I be like after that? The mind reels.

Yours forever,

Lorri

October 3, 1996

My Dearest Lorri,

You must be out of your mind because there is no way I would ever consent to naming our daughter “Matilda.” That’s a horrid, horrid name and no one should be forced to go through life with a name like that. What’s wrong with the name Raven? Or Shadowweaver? Or Arianna? Or for a boy, how about Natas or Granimer? I can see now that we will have many long discussions over this, but never, ever will I consent to “Matilda.” That’s awful.

*

What do I think about when I think of you and me being together? I guess it’s mostly abstract, very few solid images, but I want to make love to you in every way that is humanly (or even inhumanly) possible. I want to breathe your breath, taste every part of you. And I think a lot of the way you breathe, wondering how it would be. Sometimes I wonder about things like if you keep your eyes open or closed (especially when you kiss, because I cannot kiss with my eyes closed). Sometimes I wonder about your limits and expectations—like if there are things you would not do, or what things you like more than others. And I love the idea that I have forever to have all my questions answered. Sometimes learning can be fun.