Yours for Eternity: A Love Story on Death Row

by Damien Echols

  Lorri

  October 11, 1996

  My dearest:

  I am always in trouble or distress or emotional upheaval when you see this piece of paper. And today, I am in all of these.

  Every now and then I think of our recent conversation and I get the feeling—the same feeling as jumping out of a plane—that’s as close as I can get to describing the feeling.

  I am rendered breathless and limp and at the same time strangely vibrant with all of the adrenaline that is running through me, and my heart is beating so hard and my breath is staggered. You said we’ve been together over six months—never, Damien, has a lover had so much effect over his love—never—I am drugged with you. I want more—your words—I feel like an addict waiting for her next fix. Damien . . . and you haven’t even touched me yet.

  I wonder at this moment how you are feeling.

  I won’t be able to speak with you this evening and it is tearing me apart.

  I love you so much—I adore you and I long for you as no one has ever felt such longing and I do want to be buried with you and I do want to die with you—because it can be no other way.

  L.

  October 18, 1996

  My dearest Lorri,

  No, I wouldn’t say it feels as if you’ve invaded my realm, because I don’t think my realm exists anymore. You came along and blew my former realm to pieces, forcing me to create an entirely new one.

  Before you came along, I had spent months thinking about how no one was worth the effort of even acknowledging their existence, because no one and nothing brought me peace of mind or any consolation, so I was thinking about how I would spend eternity alone, and then—you came along, once again proving me to be a perfect idiot.

  *

  The reason I like Nona, the reason I’ve read it so many times, is because I believe it’s the most beautiful love story ever put on paper. Not even Romeo and Juliet can compare. I think it’s absolutely beautiful and heartbreaking. And it ends the way a love story should—he forsakes everything, even his own life, to go and be with Nona. It’s beautiful.

  *

  You said I was a “glaring knock-down-every-roadblock Mack truck” who chose superhighways. I don’t think that’s entirely true, because I never chose superhighways. I made my own and they were paved with misery, sorrow, and suffering. But I had to do it, because it was my way of laughing in all their faces. I loved the feel of the human masses converging on me to crush me, only to see me break through in the end, still laughing at them. That’s how I get myself into messes like this. It takes a tremendous amount for me to do it, because I had to burn as bright as the sun. And I have to admit that this time I almost bit off more than I could chew, because I was getting too old and tired to burn that bright anymore. I just didn’t have the will or reason to do it anymore, so I sat here waiting for the final blow to fall. And then you came along, giving me back my youth, my will, my strength, until now I can burn again. But this time, I’ve learned my lesson. I don’t want to tease the lions anymore. All I want is you.

  And I love you. And I belong to you. And I am incredibly happy.

  Damien

  October 21, 1996

  My dearest Lorri,

  Ever since last night, when we were listening to each other, making ourselves come, I’ve felt that we are now in an entirely different realm, as if we have walked through a door and left everything else behind us. It feels like we’ve started another part of this journey we are on. It feels as if everything changed during the course of that one conversation. And I love it. I feel so much more peaceful now, almost languid. It’s exquisite.

  I am yours forever,

  Damien

  October 30, 1996

  My dearest Damien:

  It’s strange what I was explaining to you about being possessive . . . it’s not that I think you are not mine—or that I have to worry about you, or our love—it’s like I don’t think anyone or anything has the right to have any part of you—that’s why I have such a problem with the media—I can’t stand it—that is why I stopped taking in pop culture. I don’t think any of that stuff is worthy of you or me or us—it degrades us. Like you were talking about how the world has no place for you—I feel the world has no place for us.

  *

  This morning I woke up only to have your name on my lips—not even out of sleep and your hands were all over me and your mouth was all over me—it was so wonderful—I can’t help myself—every time I come, I have to say your name—it just starts coming out of my mouth—almost breathlessly—it’s like you can hear me.

  I love having myself surrounded with things that you used to have—your books, your clothes—I wear the hair tie you sent me every night to bed—but I won’t wear it out on the street—nor your clothes, yet. However, I would like to venture out in your clothes. They would make me feel so safe.

  I love you,

  Lorri

  November 1, 1996

  My Dearest Lorri,

  I don’t know what I am. If there is a name for what I am, then I don’t know it. But I know that no two people see me exactly the same. Sometimes they see what they want to see, sometimes they see what I want them to see, and sometimes they see something else entirely. But if you want a name, I don’t know one.

  I hate when people come sniffing around things they can’t understand, things that don’t concern them. Lorri, please be wary of things like that. Sometimes when people do things they believe is to help us, they can cause more trouble than they even imagine. “The road to hell is paved with good intentions.” Just be careful, please.

  *

  I love the thought of you eventually wearing my clothes out on the streets. I think of you running around in New York, wearing a prison uniform shirt, and I can’t keep from smiling.

  I am yours forever,

  Damien

  November 5, 1996

  My dearest Damien:

  No. You will not be in there for five years—absolutely not—not with all of the power out here pulling for you. Damien, that’s just not a possibility. I feel so much lighter—shedding such a heavy burden as fear—I hate to admit it, but it is one of my weaknesses, and I have fought it my whole life—but you . . . I will not let fear touch us. Not ever again—we can handle anything that comes our way.

  I am yours forever,

  L.

  November 6, 1996

  My Dearest Lorri,

  My love, I don’t want you to always try to be strong for me. Sometimes, I can be strong enough for the both of us. From now on I want you to always tell me these things that prey upon your mind. I want to know when you cry. And I will do anything I can to ease the pain, to ease any fear. Just tell me.

  I know that us not being able to be together right now is painful, it hurts like hell, but all you have to remember is that we will be together, just think about that and look ahead to the time when we will be together constantly, when nothing will ever come between or separate us again. We will spend every minute of every day together, and we will leave everything and everyone behind us. It will be only you and me. Then you will look back at this time that we have been separated and you will say that it was worth every minute of it. Lorri, everything is perfect, it’s all just threads woven together to form the picture. I love you, and everything will be perfect soon.

  Yes, I’ve only been in love once. Only with you. People can only say they don’t believe in love, or that love doesn’t last, because they have never experienced true love. If they ever felt the things I do, the way I do, they would realize and understand that they have never before felt true love.

  You, always the victor? Yeah, and then you woke up.

  How far back do I remember? I have partial memories all the way back to when I was still small enough to take a bath in the kitchen sink.

  My first day of school was a nightmare. I remember sitt
ing across the table from this black boy named Patrick, and we just sat there staring at each other all day. I had a teacher that really, really hated boys, so she was very mean to us. She used to paddle me almost every day. I remember the very first day, at snack time, my grandmother had sent me some cookies, and I wouldn’t eat them because I was so homesick that I just kept thinking, “My grandmother touched these cookies.” And I hated “nap time.” I would always crawl around on my hands and knees, tormenting everyone who was trying to sleep, and I always got paddled for it, because someone would always tell on me when the teacher came back.

  What things did I think about? I couldn’t stop wondering why I was so different from everyone else. From a very early age, I knew I didn’t fit in, I knew I didn’t “belong,” and I used to sit outside by a thornbush, on the verge of tears, thinking, “I’ve got to get out of here, to go back where I came from.” But I had no idea from where it was that I had come.

  I belong to you, only you, for eternity,

  Damien

  November 7, 1996

  Damien,

  No.

  That’s not it at all—yesterday when you said you could be strong enough for the both of us—and I said I was so affected by the thought of not having you—well—I suppose it has a little to do with it—but it’s not the whole story, Damien, I can’t bear it that you can’t go out prowling late at night or that you can’t eat broccoli even if you wanted to, when you wanted to.

  Don’t you know—I’m not crying for myself? Every tear is for you—but that’s what I mean about being strong. I must overcome this weakness—I can’t stand myself sometimes. I can’t stand being weak—but you, my beautiful one, have managed to bring out every single solitary feeling that exists in me—so I suppose sometimes my heart will just break in two and I will just have to let it happen. I do think there is quite a bit of power sometimes in tears—I know there is in mine—it depends on how they are wept—what state my heart and soul is in.

  My nights continue to be strangely magical with thoughts of you. I wake up hearing things in my head—the last two nights have been incredible—the strongest point came at 4:00 a.m.—I was lying on my stomach with my hands underneath me—

  Suddenly I heard your voice so clearly in my ear and I was so startled by what I heard, it was that wonderful, low kind of “gravelly,” as you call it, voice of yours and I’ve never heard you say something like this—but I loved it and I was strangely thrilled by it—Your voice said, “Lorri, I want to fuck you.” My eyes flew wide open and a complete shiver went through me—I lost my breath and my heart was beating so hard—it was extraordinary. And if you ever say that to me in my presence—you had better mean what you say. I wonder why I was so affected by a word—or by your words—completely lovely to me, nothing else.

  I have to work.

  I love you.

  L.

  November 7, 1996

  My dearest Damien,

  My fever for you is getting stronger and stronger. I miss talking to you about all the things we can do to each other.

  I don’t quite know what to do about that—I am going to talk to you about it tomorrow.

  When I was thinking about seeing you, I realized that you will finally be able to catch my scent—I don’t care if there is 3˝ of glass between us—you will be able to—and I will finally be able to look into those beautiful eyes and look at those beautiful hands and wonder what it will be like to kiss that exquisite mouth.

  *

  Oh, Damien . . .

  I am so in love with you.

  If only someone at that prison had a heart they would let us spend even one hour together.

  *

  Now, we have a much more important matter to discuss: body hair.

  What do you think? If women were supposed to be hairless, don’t you think they would be? What I’m trying to prepare you for is, in the winter I never shave—I have hair on my legs and under my arms—and I love it. That’s why I was asking. I wanted to get your honest opinion. Oh, I suppose you would come back with all men should have beards. Well, OK, fair enough—but a man isn’t considered repugnant if he has a beard—whereas a woman’s body hair is considered disgusting by our society. And why? I like cultures that revere mustaches on women—I think if women in our culture were not so concerned with being “perfect” (which, by the way, I think is perfectly scary) their sex drives would be a lot stronger.

  I never understood these things.

  I remain always yours,

  Lorri

  November 14, 1996

  My Dearest Lorri,

  No, my love, I don’t want you to “suffer quietly” or be some sort of pure little thing. I want you to be just as you are—a raging furnace. I was only joking with you. Don’t you think I love to know how much you want and need me? Don’t you know that I love that you tell me of these incredible feelings that I provoke in you? I love it, and I do not want you to change anything.

  *

  My beautiful one, I don’t care if you never shave your legs or under your arms. It makes no difference to me if you look like the wolf man, or if you’re as bald as an egg. What society says or thinks a man or woman should or should not look or act like holds no concern for me. The longest I’ve ever gone without shaving is about a month. I can’t stand to have all that hair on my face. I think it’s absolutely disgusting. Plus, it makes me look like a pale, skinny Jesus.

  I will never be past wanting to be physical with you. How could I be? When you love someone, it’s only natural to want to be joined with them, to be one. If it were up to me, we would spend the rest of our lives in bed together. Sometimes, it’s just so frustrating, because I lie here thinking about it, talking to you about it, and the longing gets worse by the minute, and I still can’t even touch you. It’s enough to drive me insane sometimes.

  I love you forever,

  Damien

  November 21, 1996

  My dearest love,

  I was completely serious about working at Dairy Queen.

  I wish I could work some place where I got paid to just look things up in books—like what exactly is a “batter’s cage”?

  Or . . .

  How do you catch trench mouth?

  I would love that. Just to have people call me and ask me questions.

  I believe the job I have now requires far too much responsibility and I don’t like it. No one is going to care if I tell them the wrong answer for the origins of ballet, but it will be a big deal if a large stone wall comes and falls on someone.

  Well—to them, anyway.

  Or maybe I could be a projectionist in a movie theater.

  Maybe painting walls or polishing marble to a high sheen—that’s it! A glassmaker—no . . . ego involved.

  All I want to do is be with you.

  How will we survive?

  We’ll figure it out.

  I can’t imagine you a marine. You are far too stubborn (yes, you are) and if I may be so bold as to say, you can be arrogant.

  I don’t think that’s the recipe for a marine. Or any military person. I could never understand stripping someone of their identity—but that’s what soldiers are, right? They are soldiers first and “people” second.

  Yours,

  Lorri

  November 29, 1996

  My Dearest Lorri,

  After you left today, the rest of the day has seemed like it has taken an eternity to pass. Everything seems so different now that you’re gone. Everything seems a little more cold, a little more empty, and I have to wrap myself in my thoughts and feelings for you to keep myself sane. Every time I close my eyes all I can see is your beautiful face, your tiny little ears, your legs. I love you so very much. It’s driving me insane to not have you near me.

  *

  Yes, I will always call you my wife. It just felt so natural to say
that, it just rolled out of my mouth without me even formulating or thinking of it. We are married on a far deeper level than any church could ever invoke.

  I love you more than you can imagine,

  Damien

  December 6, 1996

  My Dearest Lorri,

  No, when I filed the lawsuits against the prison, I did not really do it for any specific reason. I did it a long time ago; they are just now coming up. Anyway, I have no intention of following them through. I will just allow them to be dismissed. None of that stuff means anything to me or even matters. Only you matter, and I don’t want anything to do with anything of this world. It’s all a waste of time. You are all that matters to me.

  No, my love, when I come it’s not your voice I hear. It’s that small sharp intake of breath you always do that I hear. And then everything explodes into oblivion for a fraction of a second that seems like eternity and then during that second, I completely lose myself, there is only you, my consciousness just floating in an empty universe comprised only of you. And then I come back to myself. Does that make sense? I just can’t put it into words. I only know what it is, how it feels. And I love it.

  I once asked my mom the same question, why she fell in love with my father. She said it was because she felt sorry for him. She said she felt sorry for him because he was constantly in pursuit of her, trying to get her to go out with him, and she had told him “No” about a hundred times, but he still kept trying. Then one day she said he told her if she would just go out with him once, if she didn’t like him, he would never bother her again. So she said “Yes.” A few months later, they ran away to New Mexico together and got married. By the time anyone found out, it was already done. Then, about a year later, I was born. My mother said that when I was born, I was so ugly that my father cried. When she told me that, it hurt my feelings at first, then I thought it was hilarious. She said when she first met my father, she didn’t like him because he “thought he was big and bad, riding his motorcycle and smoking his Marlboro cigarettes.” I thought it was funny. She also said it was hell trying to ride a motorcycle all the way from Tennessee to New Mexico and back.