A Pound of Flesh
This is just a writing exercise I did. I figured I might as well share it.
The room is dark – so dark that neither man can see the other from their cots across the room from each other.
Edward faces the small, barred window in the center of the room. He feels like this is all he's done for the past five years – look out this damn window. It's so insignificant that it doesn't let in any light at all, regardless of the time of the day, yet he has spent so much of his time staring at it.
Paul is laying back on his cot, tossing his rolled up socks in the air and catching it in an attempt to entertain himself. Only a minute passes before he grunts in annoyance, dropping the socks so that he can yank his hair, "How the hell can you stand this?" He pushes off of the cot and walks across the room to look out the window, "And what are you looking at?"
Edward doesn't respond. He knows that Paul isn't going to do very well in prison – he's too loud, too obnoxious, too cocky – the other guys will eat him up in no time. Nobody likes a spoiled brat. "What are you in for?" he asks with mild interest. The kid was placed in his cell earlier today, and from what he's seen of him already . . . he can tell that he's used to getting out of trouble with his parent's bank account.
"Got in a fight," his answer is short.
"People get in fights every day without going to prison. What happened?"
Paul shrugs, "It's not that big of a deal, really. I was trying to break into this car –"
"Why?" Edward interrupts him. Surely a rich kid doesn't need to steal.
"Thought it would be fun – anyway, I only just got the car to turn on when some guy comes running out of the building. The guy whose car it was," he begins to speak animatedly. "So I'm like, 'Shit! What do I do now? Do I get out and run for it or do I take off with this guy hot on my heels?' Well, as I was thinking, Mr. MyCar yanks open the door and tries to pull me out, so I hit the gas and he falls. I was so pissed that the asshole had the nerve to try and get me that I backed up over him a few times – didn't end up making it. See, it's not a big deal."
Damn – this kid is seriously fucked up, Edward thinks to himself once he finishes his story. "How long you in for?"
"Forty."
Edward's jaw almost drops at his nonchalance. Forty years! The kid can't be any older than twenty! He doesn't even care . . . "That's a tough break, man," he says.
"It's not really that big of a deal."
"You don't think so?"
"Nah."
"There's nothing that you're going to miss?" Edward asks, doubt heavy in his voice.
Paul tilts his head, thinking for a moment. "I mean, I'll definitely miss Xbox . . . and alcohol . . . and cigarettes . . . and girls . . ." He speaks very slowly, as if it's the first time he's ever really thought about what prison is – a punishment – like being grounded, restricted from the pleasures of life and freedom. He continues, "And football . . . and cheese-steaks . . . porn!"
Edward has to stop himself from laughing at the sheer stupidity of his turmoil. 'Xbox? Cigarette? Porn! As if any of those things even matter!' he thinks to himself. 'What about how the wind feels on hot and humid days? What about Christmas or Easter dinner at Mom's? What about walking across the street in a crowd of people – bumping against others and stretching your legs as you walk? What about running in the park towards the sunrise? What about . . . her?
He hasn't thought about her in a long time. Not because he's forgotten, but because it hurts to much to remember.
Her face.
Her voice.
Her scent.
The way she'd laugh when he'd tickle her.
The warmth in her eyes when they met his own.
The redness of her cheeks after their lips met in a kiss.
He sighs, his eyes closing as he envisions her, as he forgets where he is. He can almost see her before him – with long brown hair and big brown eyes, soft skin and a sweet smile.
His best friend.
The love of his life.
His Bella.
She'd been heartbroken on the day of his trial. That was the last time he saw her. She'd been standing at the back of the room, her shoulder nearly brushing the door, with discomfort etched into every line of her flawless figure. Disappointed. Hopeless. Lost.
This is his last night in prison. And despite the fact that most prisoners are chomping at the bit for the day they're released . . . he's unsure.
What's next for me? He wonders. Will I be able to get a job? Will my family accept me with open arms? Does Bella still love me? His throat closes at the next thought that pops into his head. Has she already moved on – is there someone else? Five years is a long, long time, and she only came to visit once.
He'd rejected her that day, something that he has often regretted, but finally decided was the right decision.
It would have only hurt them both more.
But she never came back after that. Did she take my resistance as an end to our relationship? Had she come to break up with me anyway? To tell me that she moved on? His heart races as his anxiety skyrockets.
Maybe I'm not ready to leave.
He knows that's not true. He's more than ready to get back into the world. To (hopefully) get a job. To own a house. To go for runs every morning. To go to his parent's house for holiday dinners. To meet new people who don't have criminal histories. To get married and have children.
If she's moved on . . . He pauses for a moment before finishing the thought, Then I guess I'll have to, too. It would hurt like hell, and he's sure that he'll always care for her in some way, but he has to move on with his life – whether it includes her or not.
He's thirty-two years old. He needs to start his life as a new man – one who does not act out in rage.
"You're not very talkative, are you?" Paul says, pulling Edward from his thoughts.
His eyes open and he look over to Paul, "You'll come to learn that, after a while in here, there's not much to say."
"Well . . . I've got plenty to say," Paul says, only half-joking. Surely he could add some entertainment into Edward's life – what with stories of what he's done, who he's met . . .
"Oh, I'm sure you do," Edward says with a dry chuckle, "But you might as well save it for your next cellmate."
"Oh. You're being moved?"
"Released. Tomorrow."
"Really?" Paul says, his shoulders slumping. There was no telling how long he'd be alone in the cell, and he doesn't do well with loneliness. "Well . . . What's the first thing that you're gonna do when you get out?" He asks, trying to make conversation.
Edward smiles. "I have no idea," he says with a shrug. "But I can't wait to find out."
~ Madison~