Lisbon was jolted from her dreams by her baby girls cries.
"Mommy!" The two year old girl called out in the darkness. Lisbon sat bolt upright before swinging her legs over the side of her bed and hurrying into the todlers room.
"Baby girl, whats up?" She switched the night light on and picked the baby up from her cot.
"Nwightmare." She buried her head into her mothers hair as Lisbon soothed the little girls back. Slowly, she carried the baby back into her room and lay down with her on her chest.
"Shhh. Go to sleep Baby." She kissed her on the forehead and fell into a light sleep.
Jane strolls through the state prison yard, counting the days he has left on his sentence. He makes his way over to the picnic bench area, the sky dismal as if it's about to pour down with rain. He sits down solemly, wallowing in his own self pity. He's been in here for nearly three years now, well, two years and eight months, but who's counting.
Jane was.
Every day he crossed off another box on his mental calender, counting down the days until he was free.
He has 1,930 days left in this hell hole, not including today.
He observes a group of rowdy young men, gathered in the central area with dirty looks permentanly etched on their faces; scars of their haunted lives.
Patrick Jane's scar was as big as two fists; or was. Now that scar was empty. All that's left of the shell that is Patrick Jane is his Blue state prison outfit that reads 'county jail'.
A woman, not ugly, but not exactly pretty either, strolls in from the opposite entrance of the square, cald in a prison guards uniform. Jane knows she gets grief, daily, in her line of work. He had befriended her about a year ago, not that he cares. The guys huddled in the middle of the square, no bigger than a small football pitch, snarl at the woman. Her hair is pulled tightly into a ponytail; blonde; lifeless. Slowly, but surely, she makes her way towards Jane.
"Mr. Jane." She says as she approaches. He smiles back effortlessly; a mere shrug of lips. She makes a gesture with her hand, silently asking if she may sit down with him. He nods silently.
"So, how are you feeling today?" She asks.
"Another day in heaven of course." He spits bitterly. She doesn't look suprised at his outburst, he assumes she gets that attitude every day of her life here; in this place that stinks of rotten cabage, bad body odour, urine and faeces.
"Where's Boo?" She asks, all hints of politeness fading from her face.
"Inside. He's got a headache." Jane states. It was nothing new, Boo his only real friend in this place only has a few months left on his sentence, and he intended to spend them attempting to get out sooner.
"What about you, why are you so grumpy today?" She folds her arms, a stubborn and stern look about her demeanour. She reminds him of cinnamon...for some reason he can't quite place. Ever since he's been locked up in this hell hole his memory place (so to speak) has lost half of it's rooms, doors and windows. He can remember that he would associate the windows with something that made him think of light but he can't quite place it...of course. Charlotte Ann.
His daughter.
He frowns, a sickening feeling in the bottom of his stomach rises to the suface and he retches. Now it smells of sick as well. Fantastic.
"Feeling ill?" She asks, suddenly concerned.
"No." He states in a monotone...Cho, he thinks instantly. He misses that man. He used to visit every friday with Rigsby and Van-Van...he can't remember her name, or what she looks like. He can't remember much.
Two years and eight months. That was all it took for him to lose fractions of his memory. Two years in a desolate place, the inner sanctum of the world, and he can't remember people. He can't remember the ones that are important or were. They are insignificant to him now. There is only one person he thinks of...or two, he's not completely sure.
Lisbon...and her daughter...-Ruby!
His daughter.
Instantly he reaches into his pocket and lay two photos down on the table. The blonde woman looks at them.
"You have kids, Patrick?" She asks, glancing at a photo of a little blonde girl with her mother.
"I think so. I know them, somehow." He sighs, squeezing his eyes shut as if it will help bring back their memories.
"What are there names?" She continues to ask him endless questions, and he can't help but get aggitated at her constant quesitoning.
"STOP!" He screams at her and she jumps up in horror.
"Mr. Jane I think you need to calm down." She reasons with him, leaning her hands on the table and towering powerfully over him; blocking the sunlight thats barely there.
"Yes. Calm, right." He glances down at one of the pictures, a little girl smiling up at him; frozen in time. She's blonde. She's...Charlotte!
His daughter.
"Her name was Charlotte." He picks up the picture of Charlotte and Angela and hands it to the woman.
"Was?" Her eyebrows furrow, and she notices the picture is old; eleven years at most.
"She's dead. So is her mother. They were murdered. I killed the man that did it, that's why I'm in here." He remembers. But they aren't happy thoughts. They're sad. They make him cry.
"Oh, Patrick I'm so sorry." Slowly and sadly, she hands the picture back to Jane as he sobs.
"What about this one?" She asks again, pointing to the picture of a new born baby.
His daughter.
"Ruby." He mutters, unsure if it's correct. He hates himself for not knowing. "She's my bestfriends daughter. I got her pregnant before I killed Red John. I didn't know until-" He cries again. "Until she was born and Cho, my friend, he told me. Her mother, Lisbon, I haven't seen since I told her to watch H-...a woman."
She watches him, confused.
"She's your daughter, right?" She asks, one last time.
"Yes." He cries harder now. "My daughter."