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And then my heart freezes in my chest. It's missing.
Lucien
Maybe I don't understand women, but who keeps a daily, hand-written journal these days? Isn't there an app for stuff like that? I carefully take the blue, spiral-bound journal out from under my shirt and look at it in my hands. I can see she uses it often. The corners are bent and the blue cover is fading. It's surprising I wasn't caught. When she looked back at me in the infirmary, I thought for sure I was fucking done for. But you know something? I don't feel bad about taking it. Sure, she may miss it at first, but it's just a book. It's replaceable. She'll get over it.
I open the journal and see that this woman's got a list for everything. There are notes upon notes and some that read, "pay cell phone bill," and "go for a run," which make her seem pretty organized I guess, and then there are some more interesting notes like "change wifi password to 'shutyourdogup' so the neighbor gets the hint." I grin and think that at least she has a sense of humor.
I think back to how long its been since I've lived in the real world—to a time when things like barking dogs were actually a problem, and not whether or not some asshole was going to punk you in the yard, or whether or not you had shower shoes to get cleaned up in because you didn't dare touch your bare feet against some fucking scummy tile. What I wouldn't give to have those kinds of problems now. But what am I even saying? I'm in this shithole for life. I didn't pull that fucking trigger—I ain't a baby killer, but who's going to believe me? Not a single person, that's who. If they have their way, I'll take my last breathe between these four walls. They'd love to see me rot in this joint.
Maybe if I made lists like these—run today, eat tomorrow, and pay this, and pay that—I wouldn't have been such a fuck up, right? It's hard to say. Life seems like one giant poker game to me. Some people are just born getting dealt a shitty hand. If you think that's just some negative bullshit story, it's not. It's the fucking truth.
It wasn't my choice to have the parents I did, or grow up in certain neighborhoods. I think back to being 8 years old, living in a small, brown house with my mom, dad, and brother. One night, my dad's been tinkering with his VW bug in the garage. "Come out here son!" he yells. I come out, and it's night. I remember the air being fucking freezing and only wearing a thin, white t-shirt. I cross my arms across my chest to try and keep warm, and also, looking back on it, I think as a defense for what's to come. My old man looks at me and says, "It's time you learn to be a real man. Grab this." His voice is slow and gravelly from years of smoking and hard drinking. He hands me his shotgun. From the look on his face, I know better than to talk back. I unhook my arms and take it. My arms sag under the weight and seriousness of it all.
"Point it there—to the back of the garage," he commands. I raise it up and rest it against my shoulder like I've seen in movies—as if I were some fucking cowboy. He continues, "Now pull the trigger son." I pull it and I'm bucked back, my ears are ringing, and I'm crying some hot tears. I remember being scared out of my fucking mind. Who the hell knows where that bullet even went? And my dad got some kick out of that—boy, he was laughing so hard his Coors Light nearly came out of his nose. Some prankster he was. That was the last time I saw him. We later learned he ran off with a woman named Ruby and was married by an Elvis impersonator in Vegas. My mom was so depressed s
he locked herself in her room for weeks on end. I'd watch her hold a pen in her hand in an attempt to write love letters to my old man, but she'd fall asleep in a fit of emotional exhaustion before she could ever actually write them. I'd come check on her in the morning and see that the pen ink had bled into her sheets—a pool of blue as dark as her state of mind.
I tried to be a straight arrow in school. And for a minute, I thought that maybe I had a real shot. Maybe I'd graduate and go to college. But who the fuck was I kidding? I never had a shot. I was on the losing end of the stick from day one. And once I realized that, I stopped caring. Then fast forward a few years and I meet Billy and the whole gang of those assholes—stealing cars, fucking women, and getting sucked into the crazy web of mob politics. Fucking Billy. If I would've known I was going to be framed, I would've put my fist so far down his fake-ass mouth it would've came out of his asshole. I should've rearranged his face, that's for sure. Too bad I'll probably never get that chance now.
I let out a sigh and lay down on the bed. The pillow is flat, but it's still better than the few months I found myself sleeping in a car—it's impossible to get comfortable in a small car, and if you've never tried it, I don't recommend it. I look at the blue journal again and flip through the pages. My eye lands on one page in particular. The handwriting seems hurried with the letters written in large loops. It reads:
"I saw a homeless man outside of the grocery store yesterday and I gave him $100. It was a lot to give, but it made me feel good. Then, later I was flooded with old memories. If I wasn't burdened by J--, I wouldn't be here, hiding in the alcove with bags under my eyes. I can't stop crying today. I feel stupid. He's not worth crying about anymore. I want to be the bigger person. I want to forgive him, but I can't. But at least I have this secret spot—The Alcove—it's my one sanctuary in this place, where no one finds me. At least here I can cry without anyone asking questions."
The Alcove? I'm guessing she means a secret spot here in the prison. I wonder where though? And who is J? Sounds like a Grade-A bastard if you ask me. I continue to flip through the pages and a loose picture falls out. It flutters to the floor of my cell in slow motion. I bend over and pick it up. It's a picture of Kerri. She's standing by a pool in a red bikini that nearly matches her hair. She is dipping one toe into the water and her head is tilted back into a smile. I can't help but look at her tits—those perfectly firm mounds, and her legs—toned and long. Holy shit. I've seen her outside of her uniform and she looks even better than I imagined. I picture myself moving my hands up her legs—as if I am at her feet and working my way up, and then in between her smooth thighs, and inside of her secret crevices. I kiss her warm skin and drag my lips upward.
Then I looked back at the picture—at her tits, and I envision my mouth wrapped around her nipples—maybe even gently holding them in between my teeth. I'm giving them a little nibble, only enough to send a shiver down her spine. And then I look at the tight crevice between her tits; I picture sliding my cock between them. Warm and tight. That thought puts me over the top. I notice that my cock is throbbing and erecting a tight tent inside of my pants.
I wet my hand with my mouth and reach into my pants, grabbing my cock with a firm grip. I imagine this grip is really the crevice of her tits hugging my cock, and I stroke it, slow and steady at first, and then I increase the tempo as if I were fucking those sweet tits of hers. Oh fuck, I say, just above a whisper. I move faster. I feel my balls clench. My whole body is pulsing with desire. Shit, I can't hold back any longer. My body bucks and ropes of hot cum shoots out of my cock and into my fist. I keep coming and some of it shoots onto the floor. I continue to milk my cock, even when I think I have nothing left. Wave after wave of cum is spilling around me.
Finally, resigned, I take a deep breath and open my eyes. I look back at Kerri's picture. It hits me. While I'm innocent of the crime that I'm doing time for, it's fucking karma.
Kerri
This guy looks familiar. I've seen this spider web tattoo before—yes, that's right. Now I can place him. He's the man who cracked Lucien's clavicle.
"It hurts right here," he says, pointing to his ribs. He's mouthing this to me through the glass door, and I'm reading his lips. The guards are changing shifts and it seems odd that he's standing outside of my door unattended. He has a wild look in his eyes and a strange feeling settles into my gut, but he grimaces and the skin around his eyes wrinkle, and I feel bad. Maybe he's just in a lot of pain and needs treatment. I'm sure someone must have sent him. It's my job to help these people without bias, right?
"Can you describe the pain that you're feeling?" I ask. I'm talking loudly and using hand gestures through the glass.
He has a confused look on his face. "I can't hear you."
I repeat myself, this time even louder. I'm practically yelling.
He shakes his head. "I still can't hear you." And then I see him grimace again, and he is bending over at the waist, holding his side. It looks like it could be serious and I hold a debate in my head. Should I open the door? One part of me says I should have opened it when he approached. This inmate deserves treatment and should be examined. But the other part of me knows that it's inherently dangerous to treat patients without the safety net of a guard standing near by. I look at him again and feel bad, so I decide to open the door. Kindness wins.
"Come in," I say. "Let me take a look."
He takes a step toward me and it's like he is suddenly free of his pain. He looks around. He peers down the hall and takes a quick mental survey of the room. Then his eyes settle on mine. It's as if he's undressing me with his stare. I take a step backward, and he moves toward me, closing the distance between us. He's now so close that it's unnerving and I'm having second thoughts.
My pulse quickens and I say, "You should have a seat over there. A guard will be here shortly and I can start some x-rays." But it's clear he isn't listening and I know I've made a terrible mistake. One of the nurses left a bottle of hairspray on the desk and instinctively I grab it. I figure it's my only protection. Maybe I'll spray it in his eyes. I mean, I don't have anything else near by to use. But he sees this and smiles. The way his mouth curls up—as if he's enjoying this—makes my blood run cold. My heart is thumping in my chest like a rabbit caught in a steel trap. What the hell am I going to do if a guard doesn't come in here soon? I don't stand a chance against this man. Shit, why didn't I sign up for that self defense class I always wanted to take months ago?
I begin to raise the bottle of hairspray for protection but he knocks it out of my hand with force and the bottle smacks against the floor and rolls under the desk. I then feel his tight grip on my arm. He's squeezing so hard that marks are forming. I try to pull it back, but his grip only becomes stronger. "If you cooperate—and I guarantee you'll want to cooperate with me doll—this is going to be a whole lot easier for you," he says, his hot breath on my ear and neck. I feel sick.
I have so much adrenaline coursing through my body that my vision becomes blurred. It feels like televisions are positioned behind my eyes. Flight or fight is taking over and despite what he has just told me, I want to run—I want to run as fast as I can and never stop. But that's not what happens. I'm practically frozen with fear and when that fear thaws just enough for me to try and yank my arm free from his grip, he grabs a fistful of my hair in his other hand and pushes me toward the desk.
"Bend over!" he snarls.
"You don't have to do this. Let me go, please—we can pretend this never happened."
