#serialkillertoji

01

“I'm sorry,” someone claiming to be a dear friend of your mother’s patted your shoulder. You didn't care to turn to acknowledge her, just staring at the headstone where your mother's name was engraved. The longer you stared at it, the worse you felt as you recalled her being buried six feet deep into the ground.

You barely paid attention to the ceremony, and you didn't even try to give one last message. It was a funeral, for Christ's sake. Solemnity was the only thing that should matter. You weren’t going to bawl your eyes out because you've had enough of that at the hospital, where she died. The priest gave you a look that you hated — pity — when you refused to give a speech in front of the people who didn't even know your mother's favorite food.

What was pitying in not wanting to be transparent to strangers? That should stay between you and your mother, and you're not going to thank the people for attending her funeral. There's nothing to be thankful for.

As the few remaining people left, some of whom tried to pay their respects with a pat or a side hug, you didn't bother responding. An hour later, you were the only one left standing — dressed in all black, even holding a black umbrella, paired with a black coat, handkerchief, and shoes. It was like you were cosplaying. Cosplaying as someone who hid their feelings well underneath the monochrome clothing.

How could they take her away from you? She still had dreams at her age, and she wanted to travel more. At the hospital three days ago, she even told you she'd join a book club when she got discharged and tag you along, to which you rolled your eyes at. She was happy and full of energy… why did it end so quickly?

You remember dumping your coffee in the nearby trash and running to her room. They didn't even let you in, restraining you when you tried to pull away so you could get to her. But it was too late. Your chest tightened at the sound of the flatline. The sound haunted you so much that you could still hear it, even now.

Drifting back to reality, you gripped the flowers in your hand — lilies, to be exact — and bent down to lay them on her grave. You felt your throat tightening at her name on the tombstone. Scanning it, you brushed away some dirt then caressed it.

“I know you like lilies, so…” You set the bouquet against the headstone before stepping back. You could almost picture the smile she'd give you. In your current state, she'd probably tease you for spending money on flowers.

“Don't complain that they're expensive.” Your lips twitched, waiting for the familiar retort that never came.

You clicked your tongue.

“No complaints, huh? Yeah, figures.”

You stared at her polished stone, gripping the umbrella in your hand. It was ridiculous, really. Four days ago she'd been arguing with a nurse over hospital food, insisting she'd make better curry once she got home.

Now she was a name carved into granite.

You refused to believe it. Or even understand it.

The funeral had made one thing painfully obvious, and it was that everyone expected you to cry. They expected a sobbing daughter, one who would stand before them and pour her heart out for people who barely knew your mother.

Most of them were relatives you'd met once or twice in your life. The rest were her so-called dear friends—the same people who never visited her in the hospital, never called to ask how she was doing, and somehow still found the time to mourn her in public. They looked at you with pity when you refused to give a speech.

As if you were the strange one.

Screw that.

You shoved your right hand inside the pocket of your coat when you felt the urge to touch the stone again. You blew out a breath, chuckling without humor. "Who am I supposed to complain to now?" It came out harsher than intended.

The silence irritated you.

That wasn't her. It was just a piece of rock with her name carved on it.

So why were you still talking?

You took one last look at her before you turned slowly, making your way to your mom's car—which was now yours. The drive back to the house felt dreadfully long, but maybe it was because you drove too slowly. You could still feel her presence in the car, which made you grip the steering wheel tighter.

Once you made it there, you stayed inside the car for a few moments. With a sigh, you rested your forehead against the wheel.

How the hell are you going to stay inside the house? You'd lived with your mother until your freshman year of college. During the summer before your sophomore year, she insisted that you learn to live on your own. She didn't want you to be caged in your house, and she wanted you to explore life for yourself. That's why she made you move into a dorm.

You even tried to talk her out of it, but she stood her ground. “Stop it and do what I tell you. You're going to regret living with me until you're single and old,” she said.

And you did. You regretted leaving her, because if you hadn't, you would've been able to take care of her. 

Ever since you were a toddler with no father in sight, you'd only ever grown comfortable with your mother's presence. For the first time in your life, you were miles away from her, so you'd often call whenever you were free and didn't have any coursework to do. It was a routine the two of you had. She was practically your best friend, since she knew almost everything that happened in your life.

You didn't have a best friend other than your mother. Well, you did once, but it didn't end well. It was the reason you had trust issues whenever someone tried to befriend you. The only person you could call a friend now was Faye, but you'd kept your guard up ever since the incident, so you never really tried to get any closer to her.

So, you had no one. It was just you and your mother, until she died.

Sitting in silence grew uncomfortable as moments passed, so you grabbed your things and got out of the car. Your steps felt heavier as you approached the front door. The last time you were here was this morning, when you had numbly dressed for the funeral. You hadn't had the time to dwell on your mother's absence.

Now that the ceremony was over, there was plenty of time to notice her absence. Her shoes in the corner, the flower vase on the coffee table, her keys hanging from the wall-mounted key rack, and her scent lingering in the air.

Stupid fucking disease.

You removed your coat and threw it on the sofa, not before picking it up again to hang it on the coat rack—as if your mother were there to scold you. The house was eerily quiet, so you made your way to your bedroom, one you hadn't slept in for a few months.

As you opened the door to your room, you were greeted by the stale scent caused by trapped air. Everything was exactly where you'd left it — which somehow made it worse. You inhaled deeply, memories flooding back, eyeing the bed that you once cried on when you and your mother had a fight. It was about your absent father — how you'd asked your mother about him, only for her to shrug off your curiosity. Now, you knew why she acted like that. She just didn't want to talk about the man who hurt you both. 

You never asked about him after that.

Taking slow steps, your eyes roamed around your childhood room. A lump formed in your throat as your vision blurred at the edges before you forced it back, jaw clenched. You'd had enough of crying. You already did plenty of that this week, and you didn't want to lose your streak of not bawling your eyes out on the day of her funeral. 

You sat on the edge of the bed, and caressed the flat sheets. She probably washed this every now and then while you were away. A small smile formed on your lips — before you caught yourself and let it fall. Habit, maybe. Old enough that it didn't need an audience anymore. 

She was too good for this world, anyway.

It felt like hours before you decided to move and change out of your funeral-outfit cosplay. The bathroom was the only place where you could be yourself without expectant looks from others. You scrubbed your skin raw under the shower until it reddened, making you numb — as if the cold water could erase the feeling of solitude threatening to drown you. Everything was numb, even when you pinched yourself and rested your head against the wall. 

A tear slid down your cheek, the water washing it down quickly. You didn't bother stopping it as it continuously flowed, letting yourself feel vulnerable, if only for a moment. A sound escaped you, something between a laugh and a sob. You didn't recognize your own voice.

Was this what everyone wanted from you today? To crumble, to sob, to prove you loved her? Screw them for wanting it. But here you were, alone, doing it anyway — just for yourself this time.

Well, you were human after all. Fuck the streak. Fuck cancer. Fuck everyone else.

A few hours later, drained of whatever that was in the shower, you found yourself in the kitchen — doing something you didn't even know you had a skill for: baking cookies. You didn't even know why your feet dragged you here. Maybe because the smell of her in the kitchen still lingered, or a distant memory of her teaching you how to bake.

Either way, you were going to bake cookies even if you could feel the exhaustion in your bones.

Kneading the dough with more force than necessary, you decided that the silence was deafening. You wiped your hands and went to your room to grab your phone. There were messages from Faye, from the nurse in the hospital, and others from distant relatives. You cleared all notifications and played a song that would distract your thoughts.

Finally, your attention was solely on the cookie you were attempting to bake. Tasting it, you tilted your head, unsure. You weren't an expert cookie baker, but at least Gordon Ramsay wasn't here to scold you for the mediocre batch. Eh, that was good enough for now. 

After a few minutes of letting it sit inside the oven, you opened it and were met by how good it smelled. Guess that wasn't so bad, huh? The corner of your lips tipped, impressed by your work. You grabbed one cookie and blew on it before taking a small bite. Okay, that wasn't the best, but not the worst either.

You were suddenly motivated to bake more batches, not even thinking about how you were going to finish it all by yourself. Your neighbors probably knew you just came home from your mother's funeral, so you weren't planning on giving them cookies. They'd probably think it was poisoned, that you'd lost your mind, or that you were heartless for "celebrating."

A bowl filled with cookies and a cold juice in your hands, you decided to watch something. You decided to continue the series you were watching, Sex and the City. It was halfway through the episode when you finished your first batch of cookies. You kept watching, keeping yourself entertained, until you reached the episode where Miranda's mother died. What a coincidence.

She represented you in a way — wanting to put on a front, too damn stubborn to let her feelings out. The queen of suppression. Damn, was this episode written for you?

You decided you'd had enough of watching yourself on screen and turned it off. But the silence enveloping the room made you turn it on again, mindlessly flicking over the channels. 

You landed on a news channel, the anchor's voice steady and practiced. You almost changed it, but something he mentioned made you pause.

“...and in tonight's special segment, we take a look at an initiative that's been gaining quiet attention across state correctional facilities — inmate pen-pal programs.”

You blinked at the screen, thumb hovering over the remote as your curiosity grew.

The screen cut to a woman being interviewed, her expression somewhere between hopeful and tired, judging by the circles under her eyes. “I never thought I'd be the one writing to a stranger in prison,” she said. “But he replies to every letter. Some of these men just don't have anyone left in their lives.”

The segment cut to file footage of rows of cells, hands gripping bars, a man sitting alone at a metal table with nothing but a pen and paper in front of him. The anchor's voiceover mentioned something about reduced reoffending rates, about isolation being one of the biggest challenges inside the system, about people who hadn't received a single letter in years.

At the bottom of the screen, a number scrolled by along with a website — some organization that matched volunteers with inmates who'd opted in to receive mail.

You didn't write it down. You didn't need to. Some prisons, the segment mentioned, accepted mail addressed simply to the facility, no name required, sorted and distributed among inmates who wanted correspondence. The woman’s words rang in your head, “Some of these men just don’t have anyone left in their lives.”

You sat there long after the segment ended, your juice forgotten as it left a moist ring on your coffee table. 

Someone with no one left, huh.

The thought sat there, uninvited, refusing to leave. You bit your lower lip hard, staring into space. You told yourself it was stupid. You told yourself you'd forget about it by morning.

You didn't.

It was currently 2:00 AM, a tab open on your laptop, the search bar reading: how to send letters to prison. You told yourself it was crazy. You almost shut down your laptop and tucked yourself into bed to sleep, so you could forget the ridiculous idea forming in your head. But you kept staring at the pen and paper laying on your night table, as if it were teasing you. 

“Shit,” you mumbled to yourself, gnawing your lower lip until it drew blood and woke you up.

After a quick debate with yourself, you gave in to the urge and snatched the paper and pen off the table. You exhaled deeply and closed your eyes for a moment. Were you really going to do this? Your eyes fell to the paper in your hand, staring at it as if it would disappear. It didn’t.

You took that as a sign to pull yourself out of bed, turned the lamp on your study table, then sat on the chair. Laid out before you were the paper and pen, and whatever was left of your pride. With shaky hands, you grabbed the pen… and started writing.

Surprisingly, you weren't nervous about the writing itself — the words came easier than expected. What made it nerve-wracking was knowing your dignity was on the line, but you poured your heart into the letter anyway. Without pausing, you wrote whatever you were feeling in the moment, letting it all spill onto the page.

Hi.

I don't know if anyone would read this, or if anyone in prison would even want a letter from a stranger who didn't ask for a name. I just needed to send it somewhere. So if this doesn't get burned or torn, I guess I'll try to make it worth reading.

My mother died two days ago. I don't think I'd ever really known grief until now. It was a weird feeling — loss. I just lost someone I loved, and here I am, baking cookies just to distract myself.

I wasn't someone who talked to people about my feelings, and I think this is the best way to let it out. Crazy and sad, but I didn't have anyone left. I lost everyone. Never had a father growing up, a couple of friends along the way, but they weren't the type to stay.

The last time I talked to her, I was excited to shop for a dress for my graduation. I'll be graduating in a week, but I can't bring myself to look forward to it. My mom was the only person I had, and she was supposed to be there.

Honestly, this was an impulsive decision — it's currently 2:34 AM. I couldn't sleep, and I didn't want to rely on sleeping pills. I love my mother, but I wasn't about to become a ghost story too by following her.

I just had to let this out. It's fine if no one reads this, or if you read this and think it's weird to receive a letter from a grieving 20-something. I'll be alright knowing I delivered it to the right address, because from what I've heard, it's boring in prison. Unless you gained pals there, well… good for you. 0 - me, 1 - you.

Thanks for reading this far, if you did.

Hope you’re having a great day there. You’re probably doing better than me. 

Sincerely, 

a girl who should be sleeping

Once you filled the whole paper with words you didn't know you'd say to someone, you scanned it thoroughly. A small part of you felt hopeful about the response, while the other felt pathetic and alone. 

Were you that lonely, resorting to opening up to a prisoner by sending a letter about your mom's death? Someone who'd probably committed heinous crimes — or maybe hadn't, maybe they'd been wronged and didn't deserve to be there at all. Either way, someone locked up behind bars. 

Reading it over and over again, you contemplated whether you'd send it or not.

What could go wrong? At this moment, you couldn't think of anything. It was a harmless letter, one that a prisoner would read and probably judge you by how you wrote it.

You folded the letter carefully, sliding it into the envelope before sealing it shut. Grabbing a pen, you hovered over the blank space meant for a return address.

Your hand stayed frozen there for a moment too long.

Did you actually want a stranger — a prisoner — to know where you lived? The thought alone made you pause, chewing the inside of your cheek. But then again, what were the odds he'd even reply? You were just some random name attached to a random letter, one of probably hundreds he'd never bother responding to.

Actually, scratch that. He wouldn't even know your name since you didn't write it.

You settled on writing just your address, leaving your name out of it entirely. If this whole thing turned out to be a mistake, at least you'd have that much control over it. Satisfied, you capped the pen and set the envelope on your desk, staring at it for a long moment before finally allowing yourself to exhale.

Tomorrow, you decided. You'd mail it tomorrow, once the sun was up and this 2 AM impulse didn't feel quite as insane as it probably was.

Sleep didn't take over. You barely slept — if you could even call it sleep, when it was just a nap.

Three hours of tossing and turning, you gave up and groaned. Sitting up, you rubbed your tired eyes, a yawn escaping your mouth. You were so tired, but apparently not tired enough to actually get any real sleep. 

And you blamed it on the envelope sitting on your table.

Narrowing your eyes at it, you averted your gaze to ignore it and decided to wash your face. You stared at yourself in the mirror, noticing the dark circles under your eyes, fatigue evident on your features. Not wanting to be more depressed, you turned away from the mirror and made your way to the table.

You reached for the envelope that contained your feelings. The more you looked at it, the more the anxiety grew. It's just a simple letter, calm down, you told yourself. Yeah, a simple letter that would let a prisoner take a glimpse at your vulnerability.

Once you were done beating yourself up over some letter, you grabbed your keys, put on a hoodie, and left the house at six in the morning. You drove to the nearest post office, glancing at the envelope on the passenger seat every so often, as if making sure it hadn't disappeared.

Before you could talk yourself out of it, you stepped out of your car with the envelope in hand. The line was short, a few people ahead of you, each one making the wait feel unbearably long, the anxiety growing with every passing minute.

When it was finally your turn, you slid the envelope across the counter almost too quickly, as if speed would keep you from changing your mind.

“Just this one?” the clerk asked, barely looking up.

“Yeah,” you said quietly, fiddling with the sleeve of your hoodie. “Just this one.”

You watched it disappear into the outgoing mail bin, and something in your chest tightened.

There was no taking it back now.

next chapter

notes: there's a few SATC references in here because fun fact... I had this exact idea a few days ago while watching that specific episode where miranda's mother dies. I wanted to write prisoner!Toji and a pen-pal dark romance, and then, cherry on top, I was watching that SATC episode at the same time. which is also how the title "mama, I'm in love with a criminal" came to be. short rant over. hope you liked this one :) I'll try to update frequently!

credits to @angeliicide & @uzmacchiato for the dividers <3