The day was eventful, to say the least. Dealing with a 4th grader screaming at the top of their lungs can be quite a challenge. My daily English lessons were usually filled with comprehensions, reading and literature, that my kiddies clearly struggled to focus on. Sometimes I feel like I'm in an episode of Love and Hip Hop. I literally spend half of the day trying to solve their mini me dramas.

At times I scream in my head, LITERATURE! LET'S DO THAT! I understand, literature is not the coolest subject under the planet and some might dare call it lame. But the whining of these kids. The constant variations of "do we have to?!" Can drive me up the wall.

"YES! You have to." I try to say in a calm manner.

But what can I say, as long as I can get a few nouns and punctuation to stick to their memory. I'm a happy Miss Clarke.

I sighed, grateful it was home time and classes had ended. I stayed behind in my class and sat at my desk to prepare some assessments. It was a medium-sized spaced classroom with bright posters of Shakespeare's plays and parts of speech attached around on each wall. I preferred working here since it was my little sanctuary. My assessments weren't due until next week. But an early start was always a good start.

I was proud of my work and so was the principal. Mrs Brown always made me the exemplary example of teacher professionalism.

The letter I wrote to inmate 29901 crossed my thoughts from time to time. Like now. I should check the post today again, I thought. It's been four days since I wrote the letter to him and yet no response. I couldn't help but feel slightly bummed, although I don't even know the man.

The thought of rejection stirred that self-doubt in me I tried to hide deep inside. It was a constant reminder of that heart-wrenching day with my ex. The cruel image burned into my memory 18 months ago.

I walked in on my boyfriend, my high school sweetheart, the one I called the love of my life of six years, thrusting into another woman from behind in his kitchen.

That fateful day, he didn't hear me entering his apartment; I guess they were too enraptured by their screwing around to notice. The first thing I heard were the disgusting moans rumbling from the kitchen. My heart dropped, freezing me on the spot. I hoped above hopes that it wasn't my Mason that I was hearing, it could be somebody else. As I padded slowly towards the kitchen, my eyes deceived me.

I saw Mason with his pants down, dropped to his ankles, smacking his hips against the back of a red-haired woman bent over the kitchen table, squealing her heart out.

Nausea gripped me as I clutched my stomach, holding down the fried chicken sandwich from lunch I ate earlier. It felt like a hammer punched me in my gut, smashing my heart into fragments from the inside.

My wrecked mind recognized the woman immediately. She was the damn coffee waitress at our favorite café downtown that we visited frequently. Knowing it was her, crumbled my heart further.

Both culprits finally noticed I stumbled upon them. Mason was wide-eyed in shock, stopping mid-thrust. The red-haired, named Melissa, stared at me too, her bare breasts displayed on the kitchen table. How could Mason, my Mason, have done this to me? I turned on my heels and ran out of the kitchen and through the front door of his apartment.

The worst part of it was that Mason didn't even try to follow me. His action shattered me in more ways than one.

I closed my eyes and shook the thought away. The memory made me queasy. I will not allow that loser to disturb my day.

After completing my three assessments. I filed it. Placed it in my cabinet and walked out. I walked to the car waving my goodbyes to passing fellow teachers.

When I got home. I parked my car on the side street. Carrying my basket, I sauntered to my door. As I placed the key to open, I forgot to check the post. Since the post boxes were just across the street, I jogged to it. I placed my basket down and grabbed the post box key from it. I ran across the street, opened my box and grabbed some mail, and returned home.

Once in the kitchen, I went through the letters one by one. Car insurance. Forever 21 account bills, and a bunch of advert pamphlets. My eyes popped open as I finally came across a letter with interest. It was a white envelope addressed to me with my address. At the back of it was the address from Wentworth Prison.

Oddly, I couldn't believe this inmate actually replied to me. Even though I was expecting this, I was surprised. I mean, I have never written randomly to a stranger before, and a criminal too! The thought suddenly became heavy.

Nevertheless, I took my letter opener from the kitchen and neatly slid it open. I took out the letter and immediately noticed his fine handwriting. At least he's neat; the thought brought a smile to my face. Good start. Smiling like an idiot. I hesitated to read.

Dear Miss Clarke,

It confused me to get your letter.

I honestly didn't volunteer to be on Pen Pal Prisoners. I'm sure you know what age I am ect, since you said you seen my details. I really don't need much encouragement. I just get by day by day here till my times up. That's how I usually deal with things. However, there might be other suggestive ways you could encourage me, sweetheart.

To answer your questions. Prison works on a tight schedule. And life here is on a clock. Wake up is at 6:30am. 7:15am breakfast is served. We eat all our lunches and suppers in our cells. Roll calls happen during the day. 9am I start work for about 6 hours steaming sheets. Lunch is at 1pm. Supper at 5pm and the rest of the day, I pretty much have to myself. To keep busy, I usually exercise and walk in the yard.

Yeah, there are books here in the library. A place I like to go to.

Nobody asks how I feel. You don't have to bother about it. But thanks for asking anyway, sweetheart.

Dimitri

SWEETHEART!?

OTHER SUGGESTIVE WAYS I COULD ENCOURAGE HIM!?

How rude.

I stood staring at the letter with narrowed eyes. I mean, I've taken out time to write to this man. For crying out loud, I've been nothing but nice. And here he responds with a letter like this. I frowned.

But my frown turned into anger. If he doesn't want positive and friendly encouragement during his time. So be it. I'm helpless to do anything about it. What's the point of all of this? Screw him, with a capital "S".

And as for calling me sweetheart. "Aaaargh!" I huffed out, the nerve of that man. Clearly, inmate 29901 is a big fat jerk. It was infuriating. I needed a cup of hot green tea to soothe my nerves.

 ***

After a couple of sips of my green mint tea, I relaxed. It was a tough day, and I was determined to not judge Dimitri too harshly. He was a criminal, what did I expect, for him to have appropriate manners.

He did answer my questions about how his day usually goes. I regarded this. And he did write back to me, too. He put in some effort, that's something I suppose.

The anger subsided, but I was still irritated, and the mint tea was not helping. I probably won't write to him again, crossing my arms in protest. I took his letter and threw it on the desk without a care. It slipped past and fell to the floor.

I walked on, slammed my teacup on the kitchen counter, and briskly walked up the stairs to my bedroom, but stopped halfway up. I looked at pebbles who sat two steps above, licking her front paw.

"His probably waiting for a reply?" I said to pebbles, biting my lower lip.

With a defeated sigh, I wrote Dimitri back. Sometimes, I'm too darn soft for my own darn good. As I scowled at myself, I continued up the steps, not writing until I went to the loo first.