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Dear Brendon,
I can only imagine your shock when you see this letter sitting innocuously in your mailbox. Bet you weren’t expecting this to ever arrive, especially from me. Then again, I wasn’t expecting to be writing this from St. Jude’s Correctional Facility. Isn’t life just full of surprises, sweet Miss Jacqueline (that is the stage name you still use, right? I always loved it on you)?
You’d be laughing if you saw my baby face among these criminals, only united in our black and white striped prison uniforms. I’d have been beaten and buried long ago if Jon weren’t around, but it’s only a matter of time before I find myself bleeding to death after picking a fight in the bathroom. Might as well start writing my story while my fingers aren’t broken, right? Your sides will be splitting, Brendon, I can only tell you that much about how I ended up rotting away in a cell.
Remember the day I left the old place (I can’t give out a name -I’m sure these pigs are reading all the letters, because of course you can’t trust a pansy) in a huff, saying I was “too good to stay a bartender” as I dragged Jon away with me? We somehow didn’t end up homeless, dear Brendon. I always had my aspirations working my own bar, a speakeasy where I can rake in all the profits with Jon. Young Veins started out a pet project in a basement, of course, for the old man that managed the flower shop above it was so kind not to question why we wanted to use his basement (bet he was queer, too, looking back on it now). Jon and I had dreams, Brendon, and that dream started out with just a few tables and chairs. Of course, Jon pulled some strings, and we got the booze. He was the bartender, I was the star, and we were both co-managers. A little word of mouth spread here and there, and sooner or later, we had a small following. Never packed, even in that tiny little basement, which was fortunate, looking back: the old man never suspected anything fully, but I’m sure he had an inkling of an idea. Who knows, though? Who can trust anyone anymore?
I ask these questions to myself every day, Brendon. It was only until almost a year was up that my fun was over. Don’t know who came in that ratted us out, but I’m sure it was one of Mikey’s friends from your place, trying to weed out the competition. Perhaps it was just out of spite, especially if it was Bob, and I’m damn near positive it was. One night before we could even open - just checking our finances in the middle of the day, I swear - cops came right in. Fucking pigs ransacked Young Veins, my fucking baby project, until they found the booze in the crates in the back of the room. Would’ve been fine if they hadn’t found the wigs or the dresses or the pearls, either, but fate has always loved me as its favorite toy. Called me queer, called me a pansy, called me a fag, those pieces of shit just knew what to do when they handcuffed Jon and I. My wrists are still red from where the cuffs chafed me - they probably tightened them more on purpose, but believe me when I say I didn’t cry, Brendon. That would’ve just fueled what they expected out of me.
It was either the loony bin or the jailhouse. I had this cousin - this real slow girl - who was sent to the nuthouse when I was a kid. At first when we visited, she didn’t smile one bit. Just screamed and screamed like she was still being electrocuted during visiting hours. It was only when she started drooling and smiling that we knew she wasn’t ever going to get better, because loony bins break you, Brendon. When it comes down to getting caught, Brendon, always pick jail.
Jail life hasn’t been treating me well, but Jon and I went to the same prison. We had this arrangement - since I was scrawnier and Jon was bigger, I pretended to be his bitch when we got there. That way, the guys knew not to mess with Jon, and not to mess with me unless Jon said they could (which he’d never do, of course). There’s a few guys who don’t know the rules that wait for me to bend down, but I’ve gotten better at fighting some guys off. Still scary, to be honest.
When you get this letter, I’d understand if you’d want to burn it once you recognize my handwriting. But please, Brendon, Miss Jacqueline, my sun, whatever the fuck you want to be called now - give me a chance. I’d like to give whatever we had before another shot. If I don’t get a response, then tell whatever doll or bastard you’re with now about how lucky they are, and that screwing up what they’ve got can only lead to worse things.
Sincerely sorry, Ryan
(Also - Jon says hello. He’d also like to make it clear what we never slept together during our Young Veins era and in prison, which I take offense to. While it’s true, who would so vehemently make it clear that I’m not in their favor?)
Hello to you too, Ryan,
I wasn’t completed shocked to see your name on an envelope for me. Who would completely desire to abandon a man like me? What I am surprised by is how little your handwriting has improved, especially as you still seem to insist on cursive. The only thing amusing about reading your letter is the fact that you seem to have been given a crayon to write with. I can only hope you gave them a hell of a hard time about the fact that you’re a goddamn grown man, my moon, and that you are perfectly capable of using a pen (unless they fear you’d use it to kill yourself, but using a pen just seems unsanitary. You’re classier than that, Ryan).
Tell Jon I said hi, of course, and how thankful I am to him for protecting you. Next time he sucker-punches a guy for being a little too sweet on you, tell Jon to think of me. You two probably were average in the outside world, but you both seem to be hell of a team in prison. I’d rather hear about jail life than your bar, considering you should have seen me there a few times.
(Dear God, I hope you keep reading and don't perceive me as sort of a stalker. My intentions weren't malicious, I SWEAR).
Hopefully we can move on - don’t sell yourself short on the crowd you attracted. I went there, of course, not to pick up anyone, of course (if your theory on the guards reading these are true, then for all intents and purposes, I only sleep with women. Now that the bullshit’s been established, your fine guards don’t have to read any future letters between me and my dearest Ryan).
No, I only went to see you. Why I didn’t actually talk to you before it came down to our current circumstances was a matter of not wanting to lose anymore pride. God, the worst part of me wanted desperately to see the longing for me in your eyes, but there was still that same damn sparkle you had like when you were working at our old place. Making sure I sat in the back where I knew you couldn’t see me, I watched as you weaved through those splinter-inducing old tables, chatting with the folk there like you’d known them longer than the time Young Veins was up and running. I came by often but rarely did I actually see you perform, but those few times you abandoned bartending and was the center of attention on that stool was breathtaking. As good as my act? Of course not, but you always knew I was a prideful man. How you sang “Lovesick Blues” damn near made me cry (it was always endearing yet baffling how you seemed to prefer country over jazz).
I didn’t see longing. I just saw how happy you were, and realized it wasn’t you that was supposed to be yearning for me: it was me missing you. And I knew that having a piece of the past in your new baby (I admit, I jealous of that old bar) would only ruin your success. So, I stopped coming after a while, hoping you’d never realize I was there like a lost old lover.
So I wasn’t angry that you wrote - I was nearly crying. A friend even had to cover my shift so I could take the time to write, because they knew who you were and wanted me to write. And you know how I adore the spotlight reflecting on my pearls, so you can imagine that this letter was more important than one performance. If my friend wasn’t related to the owner, then I would’ve kicked down the door and ran home to write (imagine that, moon!).
Speaking of performances, I’ve really improved since we were eighteen and first arrived at the village. The bar’s gotten bigger, so that leads to more risk of being discovered, but that means a bigger audience, of course! Some asshole patrons say I was better when we had duets, but the newer customers love me. Perhaps when your sentence is over, I can pick you and Jon up? You might think I’m writing this due to extra attention from you to my act, but truthfully? I want to pretend we were young and in love again.
I hope this letter isn’t confiscated, if your theory is correct (on the bright side, if I am discovered, I hope I can be transferred to the same prison as you. I can only pray that the guards love a good drag ball…)
No need for apologies, Brendon
(Also - I don’t mind if you and Jon fuck. But he truly doesn’t want to? Well, then, the man has no damn taste whatsoever).