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food. I wonder if I could ask for a Big Mac for my last meal.
The only place he’s still alive is in my dreams.
The dreams seem to be getting more vivid, which is even more frustrating. I still remember the day Noel and I met at that café, and in my dreams, it’s like I am there. I can almost reach out and touch him.
He leans in to kiss me, but before his lips can touch mine, I wake up in a prison cell.
When I was a teenager, my father died of a heart attack in the bed of another woman, an unfortunate occurrence that pretty much scarred me for life.
I’m going to die. In less than two weeks, I will be executed by the state.
I’m pretty sure that man in the visiting area is my dead husband.
The dreams seem so real. So real that I feel like I could lean forward and kiss my husband, but every time I try to, I wake up before it happens.
It’s been a week, and every single time he goes to “work,” he comes back stinking of eau de slut.
