Dear Diary
- eBook
- Paperback
- Audiobook
- Book info
- Sample
- Media
- Author updates
- Lists
Synopsis
Something’s always been off with Eva Moss, but in the African-American community, everything is prayed away, including "crazy."
What happens when the answer to prayer is therapy and medication? According to Eva’s mother, that’s taboo. All it takes is a little more Jesus, and Eva will be normal. Normal never lasts long.
After Eva’s brother, Michael, is killed in a car accident, she is finally admitted to the psych ward for help. Stabilization seems within reach, until a quick trip to the pharmacy brings her face to face with Myles, the man responsible for taking her brother away from her.
When Myles turns up dead, Eva has to prove her innocence. According to her, she didn’t kill Myles, her deceased brother did. Can she stand trial? Should she stand trial? The question remains: was Myles’ murder really a result of her mental health disorder or premeditated murder?
Release date: October 25, 2022
Publisher: Urban Books
Print pages: 288
* BingeBooks earns revenue from qualifying purchases as an Amazon Associate as well as from other retail partners.
Reader buzz
Author updates
Dear Diary
Niko Michelle
I killed my husband.
There, I said it. Well, wrote it. Same thing. An admission was an admission. It would have never made a difference if I owned it or not. Negative perceptions of me had already been formed. I was automatically guilty the minute I was arrested. Once my mug shot flashed across the news, circulated on social media, and saturated every newspaper, I was considered a monster, and there was nothing I could do to change how people viewed me.
Mr. Porter, my prison counselor, thought differently. “If you want to begin the healing process, Eva, the first thing you need to do is offer a confession without adding a ‘but’ and without placing the blame on anyone else,” he told me and then gifted me with a generic black-and-white composition book to record my thoughts. “Start with this. Let’s call it a diary if that helps to make it fun.”
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with this. I’m too old to be writing in diaries,” I said and slid the book back in his direction. Every diary that I had owned or ever laid eyes on was decorative and came with a lock and key. What he gave me was not equipped to protect my secrets. Invasion of privacy was part of the reason I was in this place. Not even the strongest diary could handle my private thoughts.
“I want you to own the reason you’re here. Document every detail as best as you can remember. There may be something discoverable that can lead to your conviction being overturned. And if not, it may be therapeutic, and healing can begin.” Mr. Porter tapped his pale knuckles twice against the brown circular table and made his exit. Every time he’d come around after that, he always inquired about my journaling progress. The pages were still as white as the two strands of hair determined to have a forever home atop his freckled bald head.
Mr. Porter didn’t do anything wrong. He tried hard to counsel me. I didn’t trust him in the beginning, though. To me, he was a waste of my lingering time. Another fake investor pretending to care. During our first meeting, I had already convinced myself he was just another creep sent to take advantage of me like the correctional officers. Some of us girls were their freaky sex slaves, and there was nothing we could do about it but bend over and take it in whatever hole they decided to enter. It was mainly the backside to ensure we didn’t get pregnant. Mr. Porter presented nice, but why would he be any different from the guards or Coach Cain?
Outside of my family, Coach Cain was supposed to be my protector. I trusted my middle school track coach, who I looked up to. I trusted him to train me physically. I trusted him to prepare me for a great future. Coach Cain was supposed to help me, not help himself to me in a way. He had only inappropriately touched me, but that was still too much.
It started with, “Eva, your calf muscles are poppin’. I’m impressed. Keep up the good work.” I never thought anything of it. Nothing more than a compliment from my mentor and coach.
“Thank you,” I’d respond to every compliment, smile, and work harder. I lived for the positive press. Finally, someone who thought I did something right, and if my coach felt that way, I just knew other people would too once they saw my speed. In my mind, every news station would begin to report on me, and everyone would want a piece of the Eva action and see me as something other than weird.
Things changed a bit for me the day before my first official meet. “Yeah! That’s what I’m talking about. That’s how you run.” Coach Cain snatched his plain black cap off his head and threw it to the ground, raving over my run time.
I slowed my pace and buckled over, trying to catch my breath. He came up behind me, still shouting, “That’s how you do it!” Coach Cain then sprinted to the cooler, filled up a paper cup with Gatorade, and as I drank it, he smacked my butt. His hand lingered there a moment before he inhaled and added, “You definitely have a future in the Olympics.”
When I frowned and gasped, he snatched his hand away. An awkwardness silenced the birds chirping and the passing sirens.
At first, I was surprised Coach Cain had touched me like that. He never had, nor had I seen him do it to anyone else. Although uncomfortable, I shrugged it off. That was sports for you. I’d seen it done a million times during NBA games. Coach Cain got too excited, anticipating my win and future, and reacted. No big deal. But then, he took it a step further.
With two fingers, he waved me over. “Eva, come on, let me stretch you.”
“Yes, sir,” I said and jogged over to accept another unordinary act. Coach Cain had never volunteered to physically assist me with stretching. Usually, he’d leave it up to me, and if he didn’t like what he saw, he’d verbally correct me.
I lay and he hovered. Again, I didn’t think anything of it. Coach Cain just wanted me to get the best out of my body.
“Oh, that feels good,” I moaned as he added some of his weight to my thigh. Given that he munched on his nails like chicken wings, I was surprised to feel the light scratch he applied.
Coach Cain’s moan matched mine when he replied, “You like that?” When he leaned in closer, the black shades that always hid his eyes fell from his face. For the first time, I saw his dark, round eyes up close. He had only coached me for a year, but even then, I had never seen him without those shades.
Sweat ran from his chocolate bald head and down the sides of his identical-colored face. It was hot, and I’d seen him sweat before, but never as much as he did at that moment. Liquid guilt, perhaps.
The way he rubbed me, I knew it wasn’t right. There was so much I wanted to say. So many refusals, so many opportunities to tell him to stop, but I remained speechless. It wasn’t that I wanted him to touch me. I was scared. I finally found something where people cheered for me, and I didn’t want to do anything to ruin it. I just knew I was taking it wrong and that it would pass. But then, Coach Cain said, “The things I can do to you off this field . . .”
Thankfully, another student approached, causing Coach Cain to snatch his hand away from nearly fondling my vagina.
My first ever track meet and I missed it. The thrill of being the next Olympian was taken from me because a man I was supposed to trust tried to take advantage of me. I never told. Anytime someone asked why I no longer ran, I shrugged it off and said, “I couldn’t be both an athlete and an honors student.”
Coach Cain tried to talk to me one time after. He tried to say it was a misunderstanding. If that were the case, I wondered why he never tried to get me back on the field.
So because of the Coach Cains of the world, it took a while to connect to Mr. Porter. A person who was sent to really help me.
I pondered over the point of what good his help would do. I had already been sentenced to death, so in my opinion, it was a little too late for productive therapy sessions. But over time, he grew on me. His treatment of me never wavered. Always nice. Always encouraging. I was still human in his eyes, and I began to anticipate seeing him every week. And he never missed an appointment. Like clockwork, every Tuesday at 9:00 a.m., he’d strut into the dingy conference room wearing a pair of high-water slacks, a solid-color sweater, argyle trouser socks, and loafers and give me his undivided attention for an hour or so. He was that listening ear I needed until my death did us part. Our connection popped on like a switch and stayed.
“Guess what, Mr. Porter?” I said as if we were going to occupy what little time we had with a silly kiddie game.
He sat back in the wobbly chair, crossed his arms, and smiled, really in tune with hearing what I was about to say. “I can’t wait to hear it,” he replied.
“You’re a good friend. Talking to you is like talking to my brother before he died. You get me just like he did. If I had a chance to do things over, I would want to have met you earlier in life. That way, I know I would have had a chance.” I held my fist out for him to bump. He added an explosion sound and connected his cold knuckles to mine.
“Hmph,” he said and sat quietly for a moment, either taking it all in or thinking of how to respond. “Well, I appreciate that, Eva. I have a confession of my own.”
A broad smile parted my dry, chapped lips before it quickly faded. I was eager to hear his confession but also nervous. People tended to hurt me with their words of judgment regarding my uniqueness and with their unapproved sexual advances. I didn’t think Mr. Porter would do anything like that, but there was still a possibility he would show me a different side of himself.
“I consider you a good friend as well. If I had a daughter, I would love for her to be as courageous as you,” he said, taking my breath away. “You have been dealt a hand of life that many people wouldn’t know how to play, yet you play it just hoping to fairly place. That is commendable.”
A few tears fell. “Very few people have wanted me, Mr. Porter, so hearing you say that . . .” I paused, swiped the falling tears, collected myself, and continued. “I have a lot of respect for you.”
In fact, I grew to love Mr. Porter and even yearned for his visits. Not in a romantic way. He wasn’t my type. But then again, being locked away at a maximum-security women’s correctional facility left little room to be picky. Even if I could, Mr. Porter wouldn’t be it. He was a good listener, but he spent too much time fighting those two pieces of hair that always stood at attention close to his forehead. No matter how many attempts he made to smooth them down with the palms of his hands, they’d pop right back up. Plus, his pale skin sweated a lot. Maybe if he wore something other than sweaters during every season, his skin would be able to breathe. Sometimes, I would wonder if Mr. Porter hid his skin because he was afraid he’d catch something from within these walls. If he did feel that way, I couldn’t say I blamed him.
One day, I became bold enough to ask. “Mr. Porter, I don’t mean any offense, but I gotta ask. Why are you always wearing sweaters? You know you live in Georgia, right?” I chuckled a little to lighten the intent of the question.
Mr. Porter rolled up his sleeves and revealed his arms, which were heavily covered in blemishes and scars. “For starters, I have a skin condition called lichen planus. It causes extreme itching. The long sleeves and thickness of the sweater help to keep the calamine lotion from seeping through and rubbing off on anything else.”
I instantly felt bad. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Porter. I didn’t mean to—”
“No worries, Eva,” he said as he rolled one sleeve back down. “Everyone struggles with something. I’ll let you in on another secret.” He closed his eyes, rubbed his palms over those pesky, untrained double strands of hair, and made a startling confession. “You see these?” he said, pointing out old scars on his exposed arm. “I used to be a cutter.”
I gasped and couldn’t close my mouth.
“At first, I’d cut every time my parents drank and argued. Then when my skin condition flared up, I’d cut, hoping to cut out the itching.”
Finally, I moved my mouth enough to ask, “Is that why you do this?” I waved my hand around and added, “Counseling?”
“I couldn’t see myself doing anything else,” Mr. Porter said.
No wonder we had an inexplicable connection. Not only did he suffer in silence like me, but when I first arrived in prison, I used to itch every day. I’d scratch my skin until it bled. I grew to enjoy picking at the scabs. It gave me something to do, so I didn’t mind the sores. After a while, the itching stopped, and I got used to the disgust. Outside of the slop they fed us, the showers were the most disgusting part of being locked away. Often, the drains would cough up hairballs like a cat. I used to slip and slide running from it. I’d watched enough television to imagine it swallowing me whole or infecting me with some kind of flesh-eating fungus. As with everything else, I grew used to it. I’d pick up the ball of hair and stare at it, trying to see if I could identify the head it came from. Sometimes I could and sometimes I couldn’t. And then there were times when I would tuck the hair underneath my armpit and sneak it back to my cell. It allowed me to feel the closeness of another person outside of Mr. Porter and, unfortunately, the guards.
Prison was home, and I had to make the best of the situation until the day I died.
Death. I couldn’t wait. If the afterlife was anything like what I read about, I was ready to experience it. No sickness, no poverty, and no prison. And I’d be reunited with my loved ones. I’d miss Mr. Porter and the feeling that tickled my stomach every time he came around. I wasn’t physically attracted to him, but his soul fed mine. He understood me and my issues. I guessed he also reminded me of my husband and the level of patience and understanding he had with me and what I dealt with.
Being behind bars with women who had been through hell and back and had been treated like trashy blow-up dolls, it was refreshing to have a conversation with a person who didn’t expect anything in return and who could hold a serious discussion, especially on topics that never piqued my interest before.
“Eva, have you been following the presidential election?” Mr. Porter once asked.
I side-eyed him. “Mr. Porter, you see where I am and where I will forever be. You know I can’t vote.”
“So? That doesn’t mean you can’t keep up,” he retorted. “You can still follow along and fight.”
I shook my head. “It’s pointless. I deserve what I have coming to me,” I said whether I believed it or not.
He crossed one leg over the other and thought for a moment. “Have you ever had an interest in politics and how lawmakers are shaping our country? Especially with regard to the mental health population?”
I shrugged. “Honestly, Mr. Porter, I haven’t given politics much thought.”
“Why not?” he asked. “I mean, it does apply to you and what you’re going through. Politicians who have no clue about mental health actually pass laws that impact individuals with a diagnosis. Isn’t that scary? Doesn’t that make you want to do something about it?”
I lowered my eyes and made circles against the table with my index finger. I felt kind of embarrassed that I had no clue about how laws impacted my health and that I didn’t care to do anything about it to help myself or anyone else. “I hear you. I don’t really know. After being here, not much scares me anymore.”
“Don’t just hear me with your ears. Also hear me with your mind,” he added. “You still have time to change your circumstances. The president has the ability to pardon you, Eva. You can still fight this.”
Mr. Porter had become so passionate about me and my fate, but I, on the other hand, was over it and didn’t care what happened. I sat quietly, taking in his thoughts.
“Let me ask you this,” he said and hit me with another question I’d never given much thought to. “You have never been treated fairly, so what are you going to do about it?”
I shook my head and reminded him of what I was convinced of. “It won’t matter, Mr. Porter.”
He heavily sighed. “Think of other people like you who don’t have an advocate or a voice. During your free hour, visit the library, read up on civics. You may be in prison, but your mind is still free,” he said and rose from his seat, ending our session early. He seemed frustrated with my lack of enthusiasm for fighting for myself against lawmakers.
I didn’t want Mr. Porter to consider me a lost cause and stop coming around, so I told him, “I will look into it.” I thought he knew I wouldn’t. Out of respect for him and our developing friendship, I did start dabbling, though. At least I’d give him something.
However, confessing to my husband’s murder didn’t do any good. Nothing changed. Not one fairy-tale character appeared before me, waving a magic wand. Where was the fairy dust from the movies, the kind that dramatically floated about until it landed and caused an instant change in circumstances? I remained housed in the same eighty-five-square-foot humdrum cell, awaiting execution.
Honestly, I couldn’t fully process how I felt about what happened. Sometimes a tiny hint of remorse crept in, but I’d quickly rationalize and replace the guilt with contentment. I was already rotting behind these walls, so there was no sense in adding more hopelessness to an already-unpleasant situation by reliving it through writing stupid journal entries. But because I had developed a tremendous amount of respect for my counselor, I did it, not necessarily believing anything would change or that I would heal as he thought.
What was there to heal? What was there to wallow in other than losing my identity? I was no longer Eva Moss, or Eva Moss-Sanders if the short amount of time I was married was counted. Nor was I the fresh-faced, brown-skinned girl with the long, curly sandy brown hair who just wanted to live an ordinary life while battling an unaccepted illness. My identity had been reduced to inmate number 317706, the crazy murderer with the now-matted hair, acne, and bags under my eyes.
The voice in my. . .
We hope you are enjoying the book so far. To continue reading...