Page 2 of Pretty Cruel Love

Those were the final shouting words of victim Jonathan Baylor’s mother before the bailiff escorted her away during the verdict reading.

Somehow, the judge let her previous outbursts of “Why the hell did you waste everyone’s time by pleading ‘not guilty?’” and “I hope your new cellmate rams a rusted pole up your ass every night!” slide by without a single warning.

Alas, it took just nine minutes and thirty-eight seconds for the jury to seal Sadie Pretty’s fate.

The woman once known for her striking looks, calm composure, and breathtakingly beautiful artwork on social media now bears a far uglier title:convicted murderer.

The courtroom practically vibrated with energy as the foreman read this final decision. There were cheers, gasps, even a few tears—while Sadie didn’t flinch. She merely stared straight ahead.

Calm, cold, andcruel.

Remember: She was the only one caught on camera entering and exiting The Baylor Estate, where the police would eventually find three victims and her DNA all over the scene.

No accomplice, no alibi.

Just Sadie.

And yet, she previously said ‘hell no’to a plea deal.

Instead of serving a long sentence that offers a chance at tasting freedom someday, Sadie Pretty now faces spending the rest of her life in a tiny 6-foot-by-8-foot cell.

The real mystery was never who committed the crime, though. It’s why she ever believed that she would get away with it…

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SADIE

“You might be behind bars, but at least you’re still breathing…”

That’s what the pastor says every time the local church group visits our cell block, like those words are capable of making us feel any better. Like they're filled with some magical fairy dust that will make us believe that living inthis placeis better than being buried six feet under the ground.

If he ever inhaled what this placereallysmells like—black mold, leftover asbestos from the seventies, sweat, and the sour stench of regrets—I think he'd bless us for wanting to die.

I've been locked up here—in the Tennessee Correctional Center for Women—for two thousand five hundred and twenty-four days, and I'm still learning how to survive.

Some days, it’s minute by minute.

Others, it’s hour by hour.

Thankfully, we’re on day six of a prison-wide lockdown, so I don’t have to worry about watching my back. I also don't have to force myself to softly whisper all the “positives” of prison before facing the mountain of negatives.

Then again, consistency is key…

I have a solo cell that's six inches larger than all the other solo cells because it’s tucked in the corner, directly under the laundry facility. The ceiling leaks in the summertime, so whenever the sweltering Southern heat sifts through the cracks to remind us that this place lacks air conditioning, I experience a private stream of dripping cold water.

Not a single day has passed without my name being announced for new letters during ‘mail call.’ I have an endless list of pen pals, obsessed podcasters, and stalkers who write to me regularly. (Ialwayswrite back. I have no choice…)

On weekends, when they serve us “the bag”—i.e., a sandwich with mystery meat, a cookie, and a bruised apple—my treats from the commissary keep me full.

That’s where the positives end, though.

This place is an utter shit hole.

A soul-sucking, mind-numbingly dullshit hole.

And yes, I know: Metal beds with thin sheets, mildewy walls, and guards who treat us like rabid animals are what criminals deserve for being convicted of heinous crimes, but I'm innocent.

I didn't do what they claimed I did, I swear.

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