I went and took Judy’s writings out of the cupboard they’ve been sitting in for I don’t know how long. The sheet on the top of the pile is called FEAR. Here it is, including (sorry but I thought it’s good to put them in) the occasional swear word – after all, we’re all adults, I believe.
“You don’t think about it all the time. Without the pain, not even most of the time except when you are reminded. And, it’s not as I imagine sitting in a death cell is like – constant terror of the noose. The real terror, the “heebie-jeebies”, is quiet. A sudden, quiet, no-reason, “Today is 27 July. I will never see another 27 July again. Next year, I’ll be dead. Me. Gone forever.” ” I might be dead ten days from now.” “I might be dead four days from now.” Creep, creep, creep. Oh, I’m scared. I’m so frightened that fear might get me before the C does. I’ll never know what direction ‘Veronica’s’ life took after Oxford. I’ll never see what Thomas and Lucy grow up to be like. Ethel will outlast me. And the fear calms down and the disappointment comes. I feel like I’m going to miss the end of the story. But, everybody is. I don’t want all this pain. Please don’t let me get too weak to kill myself if the pain gets too bad.
I think I’ve come to terms with it (ha-ha). If nothing else, I’d like to give an appearance of bravery or something – courage. But then it just …creep, creep, creep… I am going to die. Die. It’s all over – gone. Let it be fast because I’m not holding on very well any more. I’m turning fucking chicken shit. I’m ready to grovel on the floor begging for one more chance. “Please God, I’ll be good.” Please help me, please help me.”
I copied this word for word. I did put in the occasional comma, but otherwise it is exactly as Judy wrote it, in July 1990.