Isaac had written me. They
were all written before Alex and I had reconciled after years of not speaking,
but it still hurt him that I hid the letters from him, that I lied.
Isaac and I wrote each other nine times before I stopped
corresponding with him. I stopped writing after the ninth letter for two
reasons: one, he poured his heart out to me, reminisced, told me he loved me,
begged me to visit him, told me he wanted to marry me; and two, because I felt
the exact same way about him.
I loved him.
I missed him.
I wanted to be with him. And that was when I knew I had to
cut him off; that was when I realized that you don’t need a happy ending to
move onto a happy beginning. I had to let go. He was given no warning, no
explanation—and it killed me inside to know he’d be waiting for a letter that
would never arrive.
I was the only one who attended his execution.
I sat behind a glass panel as Isaac lay strapped down to an
execution table before me, terrified. He looked different from when I had last
seen him, when he was nineteen. He was thirty now, and his hair was cut short,
his skin sallow, and he had put on a little weight. But he was still absolutely breathtaking.
And even after all this time, even though I had refused to
visit him in prison all those years, he turned to me with tears in his eyes and
mouthed, I love you . I mouthed those three words back as tears barreled
down my face.
Prior to entering the execution chamber, I was instructed to
remain silent, and it was nearly impossible. I wanted to tell Isaac everything.
I wanted to sit and talk with him for hours on end, tell him everything about
my life since he’d been gone. I felt overwhelmed with guilt for not visiting
him. I wanted to hear all about his time in prison. I wanted to curl up with
him and watch movies, eat takeout, and laugh together.
Like we used to.
A man with white hair and glasses stepped into the room,
slid a pair of gloves over his hairy hands, then announced, “Mr. Darrling, you
are now permitted to make your final statement.”
Isaac didn’t take his eyes away from me as he spoke. “I
deserve what is about to transpire here in a few moments’ time. My victims and
their families, however, did not deserve what I took from them. In the end, I
was shown that the world can be a beautiful place, full of beautiful people who
are capable of loving monsters like me, unconditionally.” He smiled, a sad
smile, and when he blinked tears rushed from his eyes and down his cheeks. “Sophie,
you look just as beautiful as you did the day we met. Thank you for everything
you gave me, thank you for loving me. When the leaves start to change colors in
the autumn, please think of me. And know that, wherever I end up, I’ll be
thinking of you, my love.”
And with that, he smiled wide. This time it touched his
eyes.
He was ready to go now.
Each word he spoke was like a separate dagger piercing me in
the heart, in the stomach, in the lungs. I felt like I was about to vomit, the
air felt thick, and my throat tightened a little more as each second wisped by.
But I needed to do this; I needed to be there to see Isaac out. I needed him to
leave this world knowing that someone loved him with enough love to make up for
those who didn’t.
I no longer think that I was crazy for loving Isaac; one
cannot control emotions that transcend understanding. I did not choose to love
Isaac, and I will never regret loving him. But I will always wonder why.
After about seven minutes, Isaac lightly gasped for his
final breath, his body twitched just once, and his heart stopped. His victims’
families finally got justice.
But he’s not gone, because every autumn he is brought back
to me: in the smell of the crisp leaves, through the bright, bold colors, the cold
rain, and the brisk city nights. In the autumn, I feel him with me, and I
smile.
were all written before Alex and I had reconciled after years of not speaking,
but it still hurt him that I hid the letters from him, that I lied.
Isaac and I wrote each other nine times before I stopped
corresponding with him. I stopped writing after the ninth letter for two
reasons: one, he poured his heart out to me, reminisced, told me he loved me,
begged me to visit him, told me he wanted to marry me; and two, because I felt
the exact same way about him.
I loved him.
I missed him.
I wanted to be with him. And that was when I knew I had to
cut him off; that was when I realized that you don’t need a happy ending to
move onto a happy beginning. I had to let go. He was given no warning, no
explanation—and it killed me inside to know he’d be waiting for a letter that
would never arrive.
I was the only one who attended his execution.
I sat behind a glass panel as Isaac lay strapped down to an
execution table before me, terrified. He looked different from when I had last
seen him, when he was nineteen. He was thirty now, and his hair was cut short,
his skin sallow, and he had put on a little weight. But he was still absolutely breathtaking.
And even after all this time, even though I had refused to
visit him in prison all those years, he turned to me with tears in his eyes and
mouthed, I love you . I mouthed those three words back as tears barreled
down my face.
Prior to entering the execution chamber, I was instructed to
remain silent, and it was nearly impossible. I wanted to tell Isaac everything.
I wanted to sit and talk with him for hours on end, tell him everything about
my life since he’d been gone. I felt overwhelmed with guilt for not visiting
him. I wanted to hear all about his time in prison. I wanted to curl up with
him and watch movies, eat takeout, and laugh together.
Like we used to.
A man with white hair and glasses stepped into the room,
slid a pair of gloves over his hairy hands, then announced, “Mr. Darrling, you
are now permitted to make your final statement.”
Isaac didn’t take his eyes away from me as he spoke. “I
deserve what is about to transpire here in a few moments’ time. My victims and
their families, however, did not deserve what I took from them. In the end, I
was shown that the world can be a beautiful place, full of beautiful people who
are capable of loving monsters like me, unconditionally.” He smiled, a sad
smile, and when he blinked tears rushed from his eyes and down his cheeks. “Sophie,
you look just as beautiful as you did the day we met. Thank you for everything
you gave me, thank you for loving me. When the leaves start to change colors in
the autumn, please think of me. And know that, wherever I end up, I’ll be
thinking of you, my love.”
And with that, he smiled wide. This time it touched his
eyes.
He was ready to go now.
Each word he spoke was like a separate dagger piercing me in
the heart, in the stomach, in the lungs. I felt like I was about to vomit, the
air felt thick, and my throat tightened a little more as each second wisped by.
But I needed to do this; I needed to be there to see Isaac out. I needed him to
leave this world knowing that someone loved him with enough love to make up for
those who didn’t.
I no longer think that I was crazy for loving Isaac; one
cannot control emotions that transcend understanding. I did not choose to love
Isaac, and I will never regret loving him. But I will always wonder why.
After about seven minutes, Isaac lightly gasped for his
final breath, his body twitched just once, and his heart stopped. His victims’
families finally got justice.
But he’s not gone, because every autumn he is brought back
to me: in the smell of the crisp leaves, through the bright, bold colors, the cold
rain, and the brisk city nights. In the autumn, I feel him with me, and I
smile.
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