Work Text:
Sal opens his locker, laughing and making small talk with his friend, Ashley, he pauses the conversation staring down into the center of his locker. A letter, with his name on it, “I think someone’s pranking me again,” Sal states bluntly, Ash looks down at the note and teases him, “Orrrrr… maybe it’s from your secret admirer.”
Sal gives the taller girl a playful punch to the shoulder, “Oh, fuck you too.” The two begin giggling as Sal opens the envelope and reads out the contents, “I know how you feel about me, and I know that I can’t change that. But I’m madly in love with you and I can’t stop falling.”
Ash playfully punches Sal back, “Hah! So I was right!” The two descend into giggling as Sal folds the letter back up and puts it back into the envelope, shoving the thing into one of his pockets.
---
Sal stared at the ground of his cell, sitting on the dingy bench he slept on. Well, not really stared, he felt distant, numb, it wasn’t like he could care less. God, he felt awful. He didn’t notice a guard knocking on the iron bars of his cell until the large man called out, “Mr. Fisher.”
Sal jumps, clearly startled, he tilts his head, “Another interview?” He secretly dreaded these interviews, he always consents to interviews in hopes of someone who would listen, despite knowing full well no one would.
“No, a letter from a fan, an admirer.” The man grimaced, staring bullets at Sal, he looked disgusted, which was fair, Sal was honestly disgusted by the thought too. The guard slid him a letter, which was covered in hearts and well put together, everything fit on it, except for his name on it. Neat, clean, handwriting. This better be a sick joke. Come on, murderer’s don’t actually get fan-mail. That’s a rumor, right?”
He opened the envelope and took out its letter, ‘ Sally Face, a name I have stuck on my lips most times. Sally Face, someone who deserved better, someone better.
You don’t know me, although I have watched all of your interviews over and over again, I don’t understand why you don’t try harder for yourself. I don’t understand why you love that girl, I could do you so much better than that bitch.’
Sal was taken aback, he felt ill, he continues reading on, ‘ If i could cup your face in my hands and kiss your scars better I would, I would kill to see your true face, your true beauty.”
Sal felt disgusted. No, that wasn’t right. Sal felt disgusting. Not only had this letter demeaned one of his closest friends, despite the trial, but it also made him feel sick in another way. He wasn’t pretty, he had grizzly scars lining one side of his face and always needed the mask so others wouldn’t linger on him. It.. This person didn’t understand what they were talking about, they just wanted him. Why?
He couldn’t answer.
---
A month passed by, Sal had almost forgotten about the letter, receiving another one, then it came back, the feeling of illness of.. Ugh. If he was honest it wasn’t the first time he was objectified, people often confused him for a girl, looking at him like a piece of meat. He was able to easily solve that by telling them to piss off, but that was no option here.
Sal gazed upon the letter’s envelope. It was plain, only with a return address and his name on it. He sighed in relief. He slowly opened the letter, grabbing the paper and reading it.
‘Sal, your story has touched me, I believe you’re innocent. You seem like someone I would meet and have coffee with. The problem being, that you’re getting executed. My heart breaks to shreds for you, I’d love to one day talk to you and help you, like others have tried to.’
Sal rereads the letter over and over again, he didn’t feel sick, no just, confused. What the hell? This person doesn’t know him. Why should a stranger try to talk with him like they were close, it didn’t help this was the second one ‘in love’ with him. He was a bit flattered sure, but it just felt.. odd.
---
Six months had gone by, Sal had continued getting letters, even more after recent interviews, which also were getting more frequent considering they needed to get their money before he kicks the bucket.
The letters started to make him feel worse, even the mild ones. It felt like every single one projected onto him traits he did not have. Or worse, a lot of them seemed to fetishize the nature of a relationship with him. It made him feel like a toy, a doll, a plaything, some other synonym. Just something to play with.
Sal had an interview later, he could tell them to stop.
---
Sal was walked into his cell, feeling thoroughly warn from the day, he’d told the interviewer he hated the letters and wanted them to stop. He couldn’t keep feeling like this, a piece of him missed talking to Dr. Enon, but considering that he couldn’t do that with the case closed anymore, he had no options.
The current state of his life was hell and this didn’t make anything better.
Why did so many seem love him over his act of murdering friends and family?
---
A year went by, the letters were slowing down. It did kind of work when he said in a couple interviews to stop sending him those weird creepy love letters. The ‘respectful’ people stopped, while some did it more.
He wondered what would be told about him after he died. It was on his mind a lot lately for obvious reasons. He was tired. He hoped that the people in the letters who saw him as some broken boytoy, didn’t get to say who he was after the fact.