Page 7 of Law Maker

He didn’t fucking have the answers, only that he hurt, but it was a good kind. The kind his own meat and maggots worshipped him for like idiots.

Who idolized a monster?If only they knew the real him, they wouldn’t readily offer their disorders to him to pick apart the bones.

With innocuous and incongruous noise all around, he let the ink do its thing.

Angel,

A philosopher once said; The moment you stop trying to become a better person, is the moment you start to become worse than what you already are.

I want you to know going into this letter it will be the only one. I’m in prison for a reason and those reasons don’t need to concern you. Don’t worry yourself about me at all, do you hear? You don’t need me to help with college, you’ve always had that in hand, you know what choices to make.

You are smart and capable, trust in your own instincts.

Don’t get played and always be mindful of your decisions.

You’re not that scared kid anymore, angel.

You have the world at your feet, stomp all over it and own your piece. Don’t be afraid of it.

Stick close to Zara and Prez, they’ll always look out for you, so don’t act like an idiot and keep shit from them if you ever need help.

No more letters, okay?

Me and this place don’t exist for you.

Grab life, angel, and do it the best you can.

I’m eating, I’m not grumpy anymore and I’m doing good, so you have nothing to worry about except what tomorrow brings for you.

Live and enjoy.

Lawless.

Lawless stopped trying when he was seven years old and he was far too old to begin trying to be good now.

Who had time for that, this wasn’t a Hallmark movie.

Lips twitched. She was going to write again, that much he knew.

Angela did not listen to instructions very well.

She fought against guidelines because of her own pain.

Inside his chest—as he wrote a full page letter to a girl on the burgeoning doorstep of womanhood, taking care of his kittens because unlike him, her soul was pure and blindingly light—some of that wrong erosion he felt began to disappear.

While words emerged on the page, Lawless smiled around the soul destroying pang of loneliness.

Oh, the life of a twisted predator.

Now, if only he had a soul.

He was a pragmatist and didn’t need something so elusive as a state of consciousness.

And if he did, and it was a big if—because his soul was dirty. He had no fucking right pouring his consciousness into writing letters to a little girl who did not match him.

Dark corrupted light.

Didn’t they write books about that?

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