I have been really ill recently. I’ve had some severe, blinding headaches and have been subjected to a series of tests. Medical tests, that is
If I had to guess, I’d say it’s probably nothing serious. My violent headaches could be the results of the concussion I sustained during a recent fight.
During Exercise Time, two offenders, a serial murderer and an armed robber, for no reason jumped me and tried to kick the crap out of me.
Of course, I work out regularly and if you remember, I am incredibly fit, so I let loose on them.
Still, in spite of that, I received a concussion, a sprained ankle and some severe bruising on my face and chest.
In spite of them looking worse than I do, I’m feeling really low right now, and I’m thinking of Warren. It would be really great if I could see him.
I know you don’t have to, but I would appreciate if you could be kind enough to bring him to see me.
I miss him so much.
I miss you too. Two-and-half years later, and I still miss you both. In spite of everything.
Guess I’m more forgiving than I thought.
Anyway, I’m sorry for my outbursts in my previous letters.
It’s just prison; it can make a man mad. For a while, I thought I was losing my mind, but I’m okay, just a little blue.
Something terrible has happened. I have been diagnosed with cancer. Bowel cancer.
To say I was surprised at the diagnosis is an understatement.
After all, I took good care of myself and always watched my diet. You remember all the healthy foods and antioxidants I consumed, don’t you?
You used to prepare them just the way I liked them.
I smile when I think about those wonderful times. Those marvelous weekends when we would spend family time together.
I remember how you hated Mondays.
Do you still hate Mondays, Arena?
I think about other things too when I think about us, but they’re X-rated if you know what I mean. (Big wink. Really big.)
Anyway, I’m feeling really grim right now, pretty low actually.
I don’t fear the cancer. I don’t fear death.
I just want it to end quickly, that’s all.
But I constantly think about my son. I would really, really, really like to see him.
Is it possible for you to bring Warren to see me, please?
I would really appreciate it if you did.
13 March 2013
My cancer treatment is torturous. I am weak and at times I feel like I have died and come back to life.
I have seen the Grim Reaper and he’s soulless, I can tell you that much.
In fact, he never leaves, he just hovers around me like a bat out of hell, waiting for capitulation.
I’m fighting him, refusing to surrender, because I want to see my son before I die. I want to make peace with Warren before I leave this earth.
I think I will go with a smile on my face if I see my son, if I know that my last words to him were “I love you son and I’m sorry for all I have done.”
If I don’t see my son, I feel my spirit won’t ever be at ease.
I want to make peace with you too.
There’s nothing like dying to bring on clarity. The kind of lucidness you’ve never experienced before.
Sure, I did wrong, but we all do things because of the way we’re wired. Like everyone else, I can’t help the way I am. (As Lady Gaga puts it; I was born this way.)
If we could, we would change for the better. (How do you know Warren isn’t wired like me?
Would you stand by him if he’s inherited my demons?)
You’re the type of person who likes to do the right thing so that you can sleep well at night.
Are you, Arena? Are you sleeping well knowing that:
a) I’m in prison for a crime I did not commit and you put me here.
b) I am dying of cancer. Dying, Arena, dying!
c) You are able to grant me one last wish, yet you chose not to for whatever reason(s), even though it is a deathbed wish? (Who does that?)
d) You have turned into a hardened caricature of your former, loving self, hardened heart, empty soul. Maybe even as soulless as the Grim Reaper.
e) You lie to our son that his father does not want him or that his father is not interested in him, or whatever – you just lie to your son about me?
The doctors say I have about three months to live. I really think I will go sooner.
I shall leave you on that note.
Sleep tight and don’t let the conscience bite.
Excuse me for having someone else write this very personal letter.
I am way too weak to write. It’s the treatment – worse than the disease, I tell you. It makes me shake, my whole body, not just my hands, so writing is difficult.
But I’m holding on for Warren. Taking comfort in the fact that I will soon see his face.
My faith in you doing the right thing and allowing me to see him, persists.
Please bring my son to visit me before I die.
Respectfully and with all my love
PS: You do not have a hardened heart. You do not have an empty soul. You are one of the most balanced individuals I have ever come across – strong and resilient, yet, kind, compassionate and caring.
When I look at the nurses around me, I think to myself: Arena should have been a nurse. She’d be great at it.
End of Tom’s letters.
So, I’m dying to know, what would you like to see happen to Tom?
Go on now, unleash yourselves and let me have your fantasies about revenge for Tom. The more twisted, the better. After all, he did get away with killing poor baby Sasha.
Though I must hasten to add, my book is already written. I’m simply editing right now. And yes, it has turned out to be a sequel after all.
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