I stand in front of the mirror and examine my face, the lines of my jaw, the rise of my cheekbones, the curve of my lips. I let out a sigh as I raise a hand and run a hand over my hair, feeling the prickling sensation of the stubble that is all that I have left of the long mane that I used to be so proud of. I had sacrificed myself for revenge, and this was the substitute that I had been left with.
The cell doors are open and I can hear the men outside talking loudly. I have yet to leave my cell, I had fallen into an uneasy sleep last night after I had woken from the nightmare, from the memory of what had landed me here, and the guards had been kind enough to let me sleep through breakfast. My adjustment here would be interesting, I was already unsure about prison etiquette, about how socializing works, about whether or not I would survive if I spoke to anyone.
I hear the sound of a man clearing his throat and my heart rate increases. I slowly turn around to see a tall, much older prisoner leaning against the open cell door. His hair is long and greying, and there is several days worth of growth on his chin. I raise my eyebrows, hunching my shoulders, unsure of who he is.
"Yeah?" I grunt, deciding that the last thing I need to do is let my fear show.
"You're new." He states, and I nod.
"Yeah. You're observant." I mutter, knowing that I am deliberately being blunt. The more I speak, the higher chance of me slipping up and showing my true colors.
"I am." He has an accent, one I can't quite place, but it's european, "And I can't help but notice that you're getting all this special treatment." He motions to the cell, and I know that he means the fact that I am the only prisoner in general population with a room all to myself. I shrug.
"What can I say, I'm charming." I growl. He grins, and I'm unsure of the purpose of this conversation.
"Some guys in here might get ideas," he warns me. I frown, not following, "y'know, about how loose your tongue is."
"I ain't no snitch!" I spit out aggressively, and the man raises his hands, as if he hadn't meant offense.
"I'm not saying you are," he is laughing and I am confused. I narrow my eyes, "Just saying, gotta wonder why you got this whole place to yourself."
"I have a highly infectious disease." I challenge him, and his grin broadens.
"What's your name, kid?" He asks and clench my jaw, unsure whether or not this man is looking for some way to take advantage, or whether he is just curious as to why I have lucked into having no cell mate. I clear my throat.
"Ray." I tell him.
"Well, Ray, I'm John Abruzzi." He tells me, "How old are you?"
I inhale sharply, knowing that my age is one of the many things making me a prime target, "18." Abruzzi raises his eyebrows, rubbing his neck with his hand.
"You're just a child." There is an odd tone of sadness to his voice, something I was not expecting. I shrug, hearing a buzzer ring from outside in the cell block.
"Well, the courts didn't think so." I mutter.
"What you in for?"
I inhale sharply, this is not something you discuss, and I know that, "Why do you wanna know?"
"Just making conversation," He shrugs, "and I like to know who I'm rubbing shoulders with."
"You do background checks on all the new arrivals?" I ask, raising my eyebrows. He lets out a laugh and steps towards me. I feel my muscles tense as he comes closer, the conversation taking a less than friendly turn. He lowers his voice, making sure that no one will over hear, making sure that the tone is threatening enough to drive home the message.
"No, but not every kid who swans in here manages to get a cell all to themselves, not every new arrival is as friendly with the bulls as you are. And when I do want to know about someone, usually I can just call up my connections in records and get all I need to know on a person, but your records are sealed." I grit my teeth, glancing up and catching his eye, trying my best not to look away in fear.
"Ladies!" There is a call from my cell door, and I glance past Abruzzi to see a guard standing there, his eyebrows raised expectantly, "Hate to break this up, but it's yard time."
"Alright boss, we're comin'." Abruzzi calls, waving him away before returning his attention to me. He lets out a jovial laugh, straightening up and taking a step backwards, "Don't worry, I'll find out what's going on here," He promises. I feel as if I am going to be sick, "You look after yourself now."
When I step out into the yard I realise that I am lost. I look around the expanse of green, and I feel as if I am in high school. People seperate themselves off into specific group, specific cliques, some of them sticking to the weight areas, other pacing along the length of the mesh fence, but there is a place for everyone. Everyone by myself. I need to sit down, my stomach churning from the confrontation with John Abruzzi, the horror of the fact that I am much too far out of my depth sinking in with every passing second. I walk slowly across the lawn, my eyes searching for a place to sit, a place where I can put my head between my legs and hope that I don't have a panic attack.
I see a set of bleachers and I make my way towards them, my shoulders hunched, my hands tucked deeply in my pockets while keeping my eyes focused on my feet. I do not want to attract attention to myself, as I'd already been noticed in a way that could be my downfall. I reach the bleachers and crash down on the nearest seat, exhaling slowly, my eyes surveying the yard from my vantage point.
I wonder what it would have been like had I made other choices, had I gone to the police after Alex's suicide and asked them to investigate, if I had tried to cover up the murder, if I hadn't just turned myself in, what if I had fought the charge and been released. I feel regret swirling through my mind and I try to stifle it, I knew that my life was over, this was my decision.
I hear a loud clattering noise of footsteps on the bleachers behind me and I turn to see who was approaching, and I feel fear grip me as I meet a pair of familiar eyes, with the same wicked smile that had greeted me yesterday. I rise to my feet, intent on leaving, but a hand grips my arm and I am suddenly pulled back down onto the bleachers, landing painfully next to the man called T-Bag.
"Oh, no, don't leave on my account." He purrs, I glance behind him and notice he is alone. I clear my throat, knowing that my discomfort is visible on my features, "You're lookin' like you could use company."
"I'm fine." I tell him, although I know he does not care. His eyes scan my frame, and I can't help but wonder what he is trying to figure out - How difficult it would be to over power me? What I would look like bent over his bunk?
"What's your name, boy?" He asks.
"Ray." I mumble. He grins, flashing his chipped teeth.
"Well, Ray, I'm T-Bag," He tells me, rolling my name across his tongue. I can feel him shifting his weight closer to me, his shoulder pressing against mine, his head leaning in so he can speak to me in a low voice, "Just wanna make sure you're settlin' in okay here, I mean, you look a little lonely."
"I wasn't lying when I said I was fine." I growl, uneasy with how close he is, how I can feel his breath against the side of my face.
"I know, I know, I just worry, that's all. It can pay to have family here, y'know, to look out for you." He explains, and suddenly I feel an arm snake around my shoulder. I can feel my back stiffen at his touch, and I wonder whether he has noticed my reaction, "You're a very pretty boy, y'see, you stand out like a sore thumb, that can make things mighty uncomfortable," I feel his hand grip my shoulder, and I turn to see him running his tongue along his lower lip, staring at me as if I am a piece of meat, "I can help make things much more comfortable."
Suddenly a smile cracks across my face, and I don't notice it at first, but I let out a laugh of disbelief. As terrifying as this man is, as much as his predatory glare unnerves me, the fact that he has his arm draped around my frame and is growling suggestions under his voice while I am dressed as a man is too surreal, too strange, for my fear to be sustained. I reach up, removing the hand from my shoulder gently, shaking my head as I rise to my feet, and hop off the bleacher, turning to face T-Bag. He sits there, an expression of confusion on his face, unsure of my reaction.
"Thanks, really," I tell him, patting myself on my shoulder where his hand had previously been lying, "But I'm already very comfortable." I explain. He cocks his head to one side, not following what I mean. I take a step backwards, "I'm flattered."