I didn't know what had happened. It seemed so perfect at first. So vindictive and perfect. Get this little rich prick locked up, make him pay for what his father did. Nelson Biederman the fourth. A pretentious name for a pretentious son of a bitch.
Out in the world, what I saw of him, he was a dick. Driving around in the BMW, having more money than God because of his father. At least that bastard Beirderman the third earned his money, or most of it. Nelson didn't do jack to get the world handed to him on a goddamn silver platter. And I'd be more than happy to take him down in here, to see him stripped of all his wealth and whatever power he had over board members or whatever, whoever. He'd have no power in here.
It had all seemed so perfect, but almost immediately something happened, something not good. When I scooted up next to him in the bus on the way in I saw the fear in his eyes, I felt him slightly shaking, and I felt…what? Compassion? Probably. It was me, I was the fucking problem.
I was still angry at that point, angry that his father died and left me with no one to exact my revenge upon, just his son. I wanted to see those pretty green eyes wide with fear.
It was me and my flawed plan. Sure, he was a rich dickhead out in the world and probably could use some ass kickings, which based on his stupid prep school stories he hadn't had any. He needed to be taken down a bit, I don't feel bad about that. It was good for him. I feel bad about feeling something for him. I was going to pretend to be his friend and look out for him but somehow the lie has become the truth, and maybe it feels good, the way he looks to me for help, like this shaking puppy dog that has complete faith in you even though you're a scumbag loser.
We were in our cell doing nothing. I was reading some dumb comic books one of the other guys had, old shit from like ten years ago. Nelson was writing to this pen pal of his, some little kid but Nelson did not sugar coat these letters. He told this kid about every beating and every time he was raped. Nelson was a punk, and I'd made him one. And now I kind of wish I could take it back, because the truth was I kind of liked prison Nelson. I didn't like out in the world rich for no fucking reason Nelson, but that has been stripped away, and I know that growing up he never even saw his old man and was raised by nannies who didn't really give a shit about him and then he was sent off to boarding school and when his old man kicked it, he didn't care. I mean, I had better parents than that, although they weren't rich. But they were there at every court appearance and they visited me in juvey, my mother crying and my dad trying to give me some advice. It wasn't that, it wasn't their advice or nothing, it was me. I didn't give a shit about the law and I didn't give a shit about many people. But my parents still loved me and were there, at least. Nelson didn't even have that.
So I watched him write in his black and white school notebook, his eyes scanning the page, totally into it. One of his eyes was almost totally shut, all bruised, a nice shiner, really. I don't know who hit him or why, probably Barry, just to let him know who was boss. Writing to this kid was a kind of outlet for Nelson. That was fine, I just kind of felt bad for the kid.
Yeah, at first I was being a real dick, pretending to be his friend, bribing people to beat him up, selling him to old Barry. That was kind of me, though. He was the best of a bad lot. And I'd make myself scarce each time something happened, and it ended up doing two things. It made Nelson think I had nothing to do with any of the shit, and that when I was around I somehow managed to protect him, so he started looking to me for that.
I remembered the first time he'd gotten a real beating. I was chilling in the cell, smiling to myself about it, still feeling the rage at his father and as a consequence, at him. I knew it was all going down somewhere out there. I was just waiting for him to come crawling back to this cell, and I waited for the happy feeling that would spread through all my limbs like the warm feeling of heroin.
It didn't happen quite like that. He came back, blood all over his face, and he laid down on my cot because he didn't have the strength to get to the top bunk. I gazed at him, and he was doubled up and was groaning, and I saw a few drops of blood drip to the floor.
"What the hell happened to you?" I said. He didn't answer at first. His eyes were squeezed shut, and I could see the scratches and the bruises on his back where his shirt lifts a little, and I could hear his heavy ragged breathing, and goddamn it, what did I think? He had nothing to do with his father sending me here, he was at a boarding school the first time it happened. Did I have to do this to him?
"I don't know…these guys…in the yard…grabbed me…"
I knew exactly who they were because I had given them all so many fucking cigarettes I'd never smoke again. I had said, "hurt him but don't kill him," and they did. He'd be pissing blood for a week.
But this was a part of tearing down that old rich Nelson he used to be. Now he knew what it was to be treated like shit and to be hurt, and to be afraid of things you have no control over. But goddamn it I felt bad. He rocked a little because there was nothing you could do with all that pain.
"Why'd you go there without me, huh? Are you trying to get yourself killed?" I said, leaning down near him, not minding that he was getting blood on my cot. He opened his eyes a little, and I saw that odd dark green, the light freckles that covered his face, the severe split in his lip that was bleeding this dark red. That would heal up fine, those kind of injuries always did.
"Sorry," he said, his voice thick, deep, kind of gravelly, not the kind of voice you'd expect out of someone so skinny, so pretty.
"Okay," I said, and went to the sink and tore off some toilet paper, wet it a little and went back to him, and I tenderly cleaned up all of the blood, and while I did he closed his eyes.