Dear Walter,

Hey, it's Drake. I know this is pretty out of the blue. It's been six months since...well, since everything went down. I should've written you sooner. I guess I was just bitter or something.

I hope you read this letter. Megan told me that Josh trashes all my letters. I guess I can't be mad if you do the same. You don't owe me anything. I really fucked up, and I know that. Honestly, I just wish I could take it all back. I didn't mean for things to happen like they did. I never wanted things to get so bad. I just keep thinking about so much — obsessing about every bad decision I made that landed me here. There's not much else to do when you're locked away behind bars. My cellmate is nosy and annoying, but I guess he's okay overall. He's friendly, or as friendly as you can be in prison. It's a whole other world in here. Everything works so differently, and all you can really do is keep your head down, don't piss anyone off, and serve your time. Some guys in here are just waiting for you to look at them wrong so they can bash your head in. Some guys don't even wait for a reason.

I don't know why I said all that. It's not that bad. I don't want you or Mom to worry about me. I'm totally okay. There's a library, and I've been doing a lot of reading. I know. Me. Reading. I even shock myself sometimes. The library is really small, and there isn't a wide selection. You wouldn't believe some of the books that are banned. My cellmate works in the library and knows a lot about books, so he tells me about them all the time. There's mostly a lot of non-fiction books. I've been trying to do a lot of research and studying when I can. There's a GED course I'm enrolled in, so maybe by the time I get out, I could've at least done myself some good in here. I just want to do better and make you and Mom proud of me.

Dad got me a job in the kitchen. He keeps me close and doesn't let anyone fuck with me, so really, don't worry about me. I kind of like to cook now. Honestly, I think I just like anything that passes the time. Boredom can drive you crazy in here.

I think we both know I'm beating around the bush by now. There's just so much I need to say to you. I hope that maybe you could forgive me and come with Mom during visitation so I can apologize to you personally for everything. Also, I think she could really use the support. She still cries every time she comes. Or maybe if you still can't stand to look at me, maybe I could call you sometime? I don't know. It's just a thought. I know it's going to take a lot for me to make it up to you.

If not, I'll just say everything here and hope you read this letter. First off: an explanation. There's a lot about that night I don't remember, for obvious reasons. I was just so desperate for a fix and I didn't know what else to do. I know I was a different person on meth. I was a really, really bad person. I regret ever getting into that shit. It wasn't so bad at first, but the second I started shooting up, the Drake you knew was gone. I don't know why I did it, especially after Dad. It was like there was something missing inside of me, and drugs made it so much better. I just felt so empty and so alone for so long, and then I started using anything I could get my hands on — anything just to feel okay.

It's not your fault. I just want you to know that it's not your fault and it's not Mom's fault. I did this to myself. I'm responsible for everything that's happened to me.

It was crazy how fast the drugs took over my life. At first, I was on top of the world. For the first time in my life, I felt like I could do anything. I know I seemed like a confident kid on the outside, but to be honest, I was so scared and I don't even know why. Meth took away that fear, though. At least, it did at first. In the blink of an eye, I lost all my friends, I lost my home, I lost my family. I was living on the streets, eating leftovers out of trash cans, sleeping under bridges and in parks, and doing things for strangers that I'm too ashamed to admit just to get cash. All of a sudden, it wasn't fun anymore, but still, I couldn't stop using.

And you tried. I know you tried so hard. I know you put off kicking me out as long as you could. The one thing I regret more than anything is when I hit Mom. I would've kicked me out, too, if I were you. I've apologized to her a thousand times, but I know that it's never going to be enough. When I think about who I was, I feel so ashamed.

Even after I hit her, you begged me to get help. You offered to pay for rehab. I never told you, but when I refused and you finally made me leave, I cried for a long time. If my dad had seen me do what I did to my own mother, he would've slaughtered me. I know I deserved it. You're just so kind. Maybe things would've been different if I grew up with you as my father instead of my actual junkie dad. Josh turned out pretty great.

Anyway, I guess Mom told Dad what happened, and when I got arrested, he must've been marinating in that anger for a while because the first thing he did when he saw me was beat the shit out of me. After that, someone else thought they could beat up the new guy, too, and then my dad beat the shit out of him and made sure that everyone knew not to lay a finger on me.

I don't blame you for calling the police that night when I broke in. I don't remember much. I think I was supposed to steal the television and sell it for drug money, but I was really tweaked out and it didn't go as planned. Mom's filled me in on some of it. There are things about that night she won't tell me. What she has told me was bad enough, and I'm so embarrassed. I can't imagine how I could do anything worse than what she's told me, but I guess I did because, when I used to ask her during visitation, she would just start crying and refuse to say more. Eventually, I just stopped asking.

I know I threatened you with a gun because that's what one of my charges are for. I don't remember doing this. I don't even remember where I got the gun, but I just want to say that I am so incredibly sorry. I know that probably doesn't mean shit to you. This is why it took me so long to write you. I didn't know what I could say that could possibly make things right. There's nothing I can say. I just hope that maybe when my sentence is up, I can actually show you how fucking sorry I am. When I get out, I'm going to clean up, I'm going to find a job that'll hire me with two felonies, and I'm going to pay you back for all the money I stole and everything in that house I destroyed that night. Mom said I made holes in the walls with a hammer and started peeling away the drywall until my hands were bleeding because I thought you were hiding drugs behind them. I just wish I could take back everything I did.

You would think I would've been smarter than to let all of this happen. I mean, I know I wasn't really that great in school, but it's common sense that you should stay away from drugs. I already knew how bad they were because of my dad. I remember when I was nine and I found out that Dad was in prison for beating an elderly woman to death and then robbing her. Twenty-six dollars and seventy-seven cents. That's how much her life was worth to him. I never understood how he could do that to me and Megan and Mom. I used to hate him for it. Now look at me. I feel so stupid and ashamed and humiliated.

Remember that time when Mom kept nagging you about bonding with me? I don't know if you remember. I was sitting on the couch. I had just gotten this letter from dad, and I was trying to decide if I was going to open it or not. You walked up to me and tried to have a conversation with me, and I looked at you with genuine confusion. And this was before I even started using drugs. It was like I couldn't be bothered to talk to you or something, and when I saw that it was Mom's doing, I put on a show for her to make you look good — like we were both trying. I pretended I had girlfriend trouble and needed your advice, and after you gave me some, I went upstairs and thought nothing more about it until now. Now it's all I think about.

I wish I would've given you a chance. Even though Mom kept pushing you to talk to me, I know you really wanted to strengthen our relationship as well. I shouldn't have brushed you off. Josh always looked so happy when the two of you came home after fishing trips and baseball games and car shows. I was jealous that he had that, and all I thought about was how I wished my dad could do that stuff with me. You could've taken me to do that stuff. You wanted to. I just wouldn't let you because I wanted it to be my dad. I spent the entirety of my teenage years wanting the bond that Josh had with you — envying him so much that I sometimes hated him. I just wish I would've understood then that I could've had it, and you're a better father than my own anyway.

Anyway, after pretending that we were actually bonding in front of Mom and then running upstairs, I locked myself in my room and I opened Dad's letter. He still called sometimes, and Mom would keep him updated on things. She always told him about my fucking grades and what the teachers were saying about my behavior. I mean, she told him about my band gigs and how many people came out to see us perform and how well we did, too, but all he ever heard was that I was failing or close to it. He told me that I was a disappointment — that he was ashamed to call me his son. He asked me why I couldn't be more like Megan. He said a lot of other fucked up shit to me. In every letter — in every phone call — he put me down and made me feel like shit, but I kept opening every envelope. I answered every call, just hoping that maybe this once, he'll say, "Son, I love you." I cried for hours after I opened that letter. I hated him. I hated Megan for being so perfect in his eyes. I hated Josh because he had a dad who wanted to spend time with him. I hated Mom for marrying him. I hated you because you were so great, but you weren't mine. I was so filled with hate, and most of all, I hated myself.

When you tried to start a conversation with me earlier that day, I should've listened. I regret faking it just to please Mom. Instead of asking for that bullshit advice, this is what I should've said: "Walter, I feel so alone. I feel like no one likes me. I feel like I'm never going to amount to anything. I feel like I can't do anything right. I feel worthless." I guess it's too late now. What could've been if only I wasn't so prideful and stubborn like my dad. I'm like him in a lot more ways than I thought, I guess. We're both here together, aren't we?

He hates me, but I don't think he wants to. He gets out before me, and he said that I can come stay with him when my time is up. I know you don't want me to come back home, but I hope that I can start proving myself to you. I'm not asking to live there again, but maybe if you could just find it in your hearts to forgive me and let me back into your lives, I promise that I will be a better person.

If you feel like it, please write me back. I could really use a friend to talk to. If you feel like it. Please, tell everyone I miss them and love them and that I'm so sorry, especially Josh because he isn't reading my letters. I miss you, too, and I love you. Maybe when I get out...

Well, anyway, I just wanted to write to you to express how fucking sorry I am. About everything. I wanted to make sure you know that I'm not mad anymore about you having me locked up. I'm just sorry about how things turned out. Okay, that's all. I love you.

Your son,

Drake Parker

"I'll take that."

"What the fuck?!" Drake turned in his chair and looked up at the tall man, who, like himself, wore a light brown pair of stretch pants and a shirt with a long-sleeved white top underneath. "Dad!"

Unlike Drake, he had his sleeves rolled up to show off his menacing muscles and prison tattoos. "Whatcha writing?"

"Just give it back, okay?" Drake reached for it, but his father shoved his hand away and glanced at the paper.

"Walter? The fuck are you writing him for?" He skimmed over the letter, his eyes changing from shock to anger to absolute rage within a matter of seconds.

"Dad, stop. That's not yours!"

When had that ever stopped his father, though? Mr. Parker took his Jell-O during dinner without asking. He "borrowed" his shampoo without permission. Just yesterday, he stole Drake's toothbrush and made a shiv out of it.

"The fuck is this, Drake? How could you say this about me? How could you say this to him of all people?!"

"It's none of your fucking business, okay?!" His voice squeaked, demolishing any chance he had at sounding brave.

Infuriated, the man gripped the top of the paper with both hands and tore it right down the middle. His son attempted to make another grab for it, but to no avail. Mr. Parker crumpled the two pieces into a ball, then tossed it into the silver toilet bolted to the wall and flushed it.

"Dad! What the fuck?!" Drake furrowed his brows with anger.

The man shoved him against the wall, then smacked him. He grabbed the side of his son's hair in his fist and forced him to meet his eyes when he said, "He's not your fucking father! I am!" He smacked his son again.

"I know!" Drake covered his face with his arms, but it wasn't doing much good.

"You fucking hate me?! HUH?!"

"No!"

"THAT'S NOT WHAT YOU SAID IN YOUR LETTER!"

"I'm sorry, okay?!" He was willing to say anything now because his father had changed from slapping him to punching him. Too terrified of him to fight back, he slid his back down the wall and sat on his bottom, curling into a ball to protect himself as best as he could.

"I can not believe you said those things about me!"

"I'm sorry!" Drake tried again. "Dad, stop! Please!"

"You blame me for how you turned out?!"

"No! I swear!"

"You lying sack of shit!"

Drake took one more blow to the head before his father quit. He lifted his face hesitantly and gazed up at Mr. Parker while wearing the most pitiful expression the man had ever seen. Drake's fingers trembled with fear next to his head, but he kept them there in case his dad changed his mind and decided to keep pounding on him. His voice was meek and defensive like a child getting in trouble for pinching his friend. "I'm sorry, okay?"

"Don't you ever write him again. Do you understand me? Ever!"

"Yes, sir."

"He is not your fucking father. You are my son," he growled. "You hear me?"

"Yes, sir."

"Get your lousy ass cleaned up before a guard comes by and sees you." His dad grabbed his arm roughly and snatched him to his feet, then he shoved him towards the sink so hard that the young man almost lost his footing again.

Drake grabbed his roll of toilet paper and tore off some. He wet it under the faucet and dabbed at his sore head. He knew where it hurt, but he didn't know where exactly the blood was. Irritated by his slowness, Mr. Parker grabbed the wet paper.

"Jesus, give it here, you useless fuck." Despite his rage, he dabbed gently, and despite his gentleness, Drake still winced. He spoke again, and although he was still angry, he used a much more reasonable volume. "I swear to God, Drake. If I find out you write another letter to that miserable fucking pansy, I'm going to slit your throat with the shiv I made out of your toothbrush."

Drake believed him. "I won't," he said in a shaky voice, and it was the truth.

"I'm not a bad person, Drake, and you would be lucky to grow up to be like me. Look at me. I run this fucking place. You and me — we're a team. Nobody dares to fuck with our gang. When we get out, we may be leaving some people behind, but there are other members outside of these walls who will be glad to have us. Both of us were abandoned by the people who were supposed to love us. My ex wife — your whore mother — she dumped both of us, didn't she?"

"Yes, sir." Drake wanted to cry, but he refused to cry in this place. He would never let these people see him so weak.

"This gang is our family now. They're the only ones who have our backs."

"I know."

"Good."

Drake felt his father's hand creep into the front of his pants. He quickly grabbed the man's wrists. "Dad, please, I don't wanna do this."

"Relax. Don't be a fucking pussy," the man said. He reached into the large bag he had slipped into his son's underwear and pulled out a much tinier bag. After a quick glance behind himself, he dumped its contents, a white powder, onto the side of his hand in a straight line, snorted it, then poured out another line for his son.

Okay, so Drake technically didn't lie in his letter. He never said he had cleaned up. He'd said he wanted to when he got out. He'd never stopped using in here. Either way, it didn't matter. Walter would never read the letter anyway. Drake snorted his line of meth, then asked for another despite the fact that the chemicals made his head feel like it was going to explode. Mr. Parker stared at him as he debated this in his mind, but he gave his son what he wanted. The young man followed the second line of powder with his other nostril, then wiped his nose.

"You better not fucking start showing your ass and get us caught or you're gonna fucking regret it."

"Yes, sir." Drake sniffled, the pain in his skull subsiding.

Mr. Parker stepped back and examined his son's crotch. He moved forwards and stuck his hand in his pants again, observing his work. Drake wasn't sure if he felt more uncomfortable with the fact that his father was moving his penis around and touching him or the fact that he had dozens of baggies of meth in his underwear. Getting caught with them could add years to his already too long sentence. He couldn't tell his father no, though. He'd tried that before, and his dad threatened to stop protecting him. Being eighteen, Drake was young and handsome. Without his father's protection, it would be like open season on his ass. Literally. He would have to go find some other strong guy with a bad reputation and offer voluntary blowjobs in exchange for protection. Luckily, he didn't have to do any of that now, but what about when his dad gets out of prison? Hopefully, this gang that his father forced him to join really does have his back because he was really risking a lot more than any of them by doing this bullshit.

"Alright, you good?"

"Yes, sir." He wasn't, but saying that would only piss his dad off further. You've done this plenty of times. Everything will be fine. Dad's got you. The gang's got you. Just act fucking natural. And stop sniffling! Jesus!

"Let's go." Mr. Parker turned, but before he could leave, two guards came to the door.

"What are you doing in here?" the taller one asked. "This isn't your cell."

"I was just checking on my son, sir," the man answered.

"That's a shot, Parker. Now come out and get against the wall. We're tossing bunks."

Drake's heart sank. Oh, fuck! I'm so fucked! Okay, calm down. Just act natural.

"Parker, did you hear me?!" the officer said while his buddy rudely tossed the boy's belongings onto the floor.

"Yes, sir," Drake said.

He followed his father out of the cell just as his mattress was flipped and thrown across the room. Like Mr. Parker, he faced the wall, placing his hands flat against them and spreading his legs a bit. This was nothing new to him, except this time, he had a shitload of meth in his fucking underwear.

"Dad," he whispered, "you have to take it back."

"Shut up," the man growled as he looked around at all the cells being tossed by other guards.

"I'm gonna get in so much fucking shit for this. They're gonna throw me in the SHU. I did this for you."

"Shut up, Drake!" he hissed.

"Dad, please. They're gonna add time to my sentence." He was shaking again. "I'm already gonna be in here until I'm thirty. I don't wanna spend the rest of my life in here. I'm begging you. Please, take it back. Please!"

"Listen to me. You tell no one where you got it. You understand me? If I find out you've snitched on me or anyone in the gang, you're fucking dead. You might spend a little more time in here than you'd hoped, but if you say anything, you're gonna die in this place. Do you understand me?"

"Dad, I'm begging you. Please. Please."

His father straightened and glared down at him with the most frightening expression his son had ever seen. "I said, do you understand me?"

Drake's face contorted, but he still refused to cry. He managed to keep his tears back, but his voice cracked. "Yes, sir."

"Good. Now shut the fuck up."

"Parker, hands against the wall," the taller officer said as he exited the cell. He went over to the older convict. "You know the drill."

The rude guard, who had no doubt unnecessarily strewed everything all around the cell, started on Drake's pat-down. First the shoulders, then the lengths of his arms, his chest, his waist, and then...jackpot. "We got something here."

Even when he was forced onto his knees and cuffed, Drake didn't cry. Even when his father had the audacity to look at him as if he was angry and disappointed that his son would do such a thing, he didn't cry. He didn't cry when Mr. Parker gave him a hard slap to further sell his own innocence. He didn't cry when he was taken to the warden, then the SHU. He didn't cry when he walked into that courtroom with chains around his wrists and ankles. He didn't cry when he saw his mother sitting alone in the first pew behind him even though she was in tears. He didn't cry when he plead guilty and the judge tacked on ten more years to his lovely stay in prison. He didn't cry when they finally released him back into Gen Pop and his father approached him and asked what sort of sentence Drake was facing. He didn't cry when his dad hugged him and, for the first time in his life, told him that he was proud of him.

No, what finally broke him was when his mother came and let him know that it would be her last visit. Tears rolled down his face as she explained to him how upset she was with him, how much stress he was putting on her, and how it was negatively and severely affecting her life in the real world. She was severing all ties. He begged for her forgiveness, begged her not to leave him alone, begged her not to give up on him. He put his hand on the glass between them like his mother so often did during previous visits to pretend that she was holding his hand. This time, she did not return the touch. Drake sobbed when she told him she loved him and wished him luck, and then she was gone.

With her went the last bit of the happy-go-lucky, smiley son she once knew, and all that was left was a hard shell filled with rage, loneliness and basic tips to survive prison life. Drake lost himself in there, and whether he wanted to or not, he became just like his father. They played cards together, dealt drugs together, hurt people together. Once you're inside, you learn pretty quickly that you have to start doing things you don't want to do if you want to survive. These kinds of things will get you in trouble, and sometimes you risk getting a longer sentence, but if you don't do these things, you'll get killed. That was the cycle Drake got caught up in, and by the time he was finally released, both his mother and father had passed away, his step-dad was nowhere to be found, his step-brother despised him, and his own sister refused to see him. Drake wasn't even out a full three months before he got arrested again, but he wasn't angry this time. He went from being on top to being at his lowest to being on top again. Prison life was all he knew. No one fucked with him here. The real world was full of people who never gave him a chance. People on the inside gave him a chance or else they'd get their head bashed in.

That's who he was now, and he blamed one person for that.

Dear Walter,

This letter's long overdue, isn't it? I might have written you sooner, but you kind of went and fucked off and you forgot to tell me where. Josh and Megan did the same, but it wasn't too hard to find my sister. She's married with three kids now. That's crazy, isn't it? She wouldn't let me see them, but she told me. I showed up at her house before I got arrested again over some bullshit, but she wouldn't let me in. You've turned my own family against me.

I know she knows where you are, so when I mail this to her with your name on it, I hope to God she gives you this letter because I have so much I wanna say to you. I'll keep it short, though, and maybe we can go into more detail if you come during visitation. I haven't had a visitor in over twenty years because of you. Not one face-to-face, not one friend willing to answer my phone call, not even a lousy fucking letter.

Anyway, I basically just wanted to tell you that you've ruined my life. You put me here. There was so much more you could've done, but instead, you had me — your own family — locked up. And in the same prison my dad was in, too. You know, several years ago — the first time I got time added onto my sentence — it wasn't even my fault. Dad forced me to sell meth with him. I never wanted to. In fact, I tried to clean up when I first got here, but he wouldn't let me. I can say all this now because he's dead and he can't kill me. That's right. My own father said he was going to kill me if I told the truth. I got caught with his drugs, and I got ten extra years. Every single one of you abandoned me, even Mom. I didn't even do anything wrong. I was scared because my dad beat the shit out of me every time I disobeyed him, and he would've killed me, too, if I ratted him out. I don't blame him, though. Prison turns you into someone you never wanted to be. It's your fault because you gave up on me, and you're the reason I'm here.

My whole life is fucking gone because of you, and I just wanted you to know that I hate you. Anyway, so that's it. See you in the next life, fucker.

Drake Parker

Author's Note: I've always had this idea that I wanted to do something with that one scene from that one episode of the show where Drake was looking at an envelope and Walter approached him because Audrey kept nagging him about trying to bond with him. I always liked to think that maybe it was something from his dad.

I've just been wanting to write something different for a while because I've been working on the Charlie series for four years now. For those of you who have read it, I'm still working on the third story in the trilogy, and finally, it's going to be about Drake's recovery from drug addiction and the relationship he had with his abusive father. It took long enough, right? I know that's what you guys have been wanting since the very first story in the series, but addiction is never that simple.

And for those of you who liked this and haven't read the Charlie series, feel free to check it out. It's a much longer Drake fanfic involving a shitty dad and drugs, much like this story. The first in the series is called Charlie Freak. It is rated M, though.

Anyway, let me know what you think about this story. I feel like it might get a lot of hate because Drake kind of became an asshole. Plus, it's such a reach from what the show Drake & Josh actually is, and it's probably out of character, but I tried my best because drugs can change anyone. Whether you like this or not, please, review and give me your thoughts. I would love to start writing short stories now and then until I finally have the third Charlie story ready for release. Anyway, love you guys.

P.S. This is a one-shot. There will be no further chapters for this story. I just wanted to try something new with my writing.