It'd all started with an argumemt gone a little too far. Something about his medicine, and how he'd needed to be nore responsible with it. Xavier didn't -he couldn't- remember what it was that'd sparked the whole thing. He simply knew that one thing lead to another, and the next thing he knew, his best friend, and ultimately his care taker, was in the hospital with life threatening injuries. Xavier didn't know what'd happened. More specifically, Buddy didn't know. Xavier had lived the vast majority of the earliest parts of his childhood in squalor and depravity. He had a mother who was better off dead, and a father never quite in the picture, for reasons he'd never figured or cared to figure out. There was a new man every few days. Most weren't the greatest. But his mother's favorites liked to hit. They hit anything they could. Whether it was her or Xavier or the wall, mother's favorites liked to hit. Xavier remembered that well. Come seven years old, one too many blows to the head took its toll. Between crippling panic attacks and depression, there was another problem that'd come up. Xavier wasn't wholly himself by the time he got into foster care. When his family adopted him, they took in two boys. Xavier himself, and Buddy; two personalities -two people- within the same body. It was a coping mechanism, one he never quite grew out of. Retreating into himself, leaving a personna to take the damage and the flack from the outside world, Buddy- the far more resilient of his personalities- took the fall. And when he went to court, and later prison, it'd been poor little Buddy who took the heat of the stress. Mentall illness be damned, he landed six years in a medium security prison and three years of anger management classes during that time. While Buddy had made friends with his cell mates, Joe and Harold, Xavier, when he finally came back around, didn't hold them to such high regards. Six months into his sentence with no contact from his old friend, or even his family, Xavier was placed into the prison's pen pal system. It wasn't likely he'd get any mail, but there was a chance. Filling out the profile was a hassle for the man, caught between not knowing what to write and not wanting to write anything. Some time later, his profile was online. it wasn't much, but there wasn't much he had to say. Xavier Smith. 22. I'm sad about the mistakes I made, but I ddon't remember what happened. I hurt someone I was close to. I wish I didn't do it. I'm going to be a better person I hope. I'm lonely and sad and I wish I had a friend to talk to here. if you respond to this, thank you.