This idea is probably silly but I really really—just really wanted to write a story like this.
Before we start I would like to say that I am not a lawyer and I am not from America, so if I get my "lawyery" facts wrong, I apologise. All the laws and facts that would be in this story are from what I have read and researched online, and have tried to make sense of it in my head.
Also, I am using the current laws for this story, although it's taking place in the 90s, since I can't find much info from that period of time.
Hope you will enjoy.
Please leave a review.
"You're not getting out. You're stuck here until they tell you that you can leave"
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
There are no windows in prison. At least, none that she'd seen since she got here. There isn't one in her cell, there isn't one in the barrack or in this Housing Unit. And there definitely isn't one in solitary confinement.
No one has a window up there.
Not in this prison, at least.
It's never dark here, though, as one might think otherwise. 'Lights out' doesn't mean light will be turned off — no, there's always some kind of light so that the correctional officers can see them at all times and she gets it, she really does — they're criminals, they're dangerous, you know, whatever — but she's convinced that it's more as a form of torture.
White torture.
Would it kill them to just dim the lights a little? Just a tad bit more so she can get some sleep once in a while.
She still remembers the last time she saw the sky as a free woman; it was setting, lightening to a weak pinky-orange hue and it looked like nothing more than watered down blood.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
Everything aches in prison. Everything stinks sour in prison. Everything about prison is driving her to the brink of insanity.
Oh, and she's not going to say that out loud or tell anyone for that matter because then, they'll strip her naked and stick her in psych for God knows how long. She's seen it happen and most of the time, the women would come back out even crazier than they were beforehand.
Prison takes and takes until they begin to lose touch with reality, until they forget what it was like because they had to adapt, evolve, become in order to survive.
The concept of time and space is nonexistent here and it's done so on purpose to mess with their minds. Like she mentioned, a form of white torture. She's like a candle; she dies a little everyday. However, now that she's in prison, it's a lot more than just a little. She has been melting steadily for some twenty-four years and five months, but the candle is much smaller now, four months into her sentence. She's basically a puddle of burning wax and a tiny wick now.
It's a hopeful sort of thing, at least in appearance. When one looks closely though, it's all shadows and smoke — in the way that shadow magnifies an object and smoke mars vision. She's the candle and it's dripping, dripping, and the wax is coagulating, coagulating on her skin like hot white scars.
On the outside, or the streets, time is incredibly important. Time is commonly represented by spatial metaphors. Time is as invisible, time is untouchable, inaudible as the idea of God, and as indissolubly part of everything.
Her everyday communications used to be littered with references to time — clock time and winter time, good times and bad times, of the right time, of a time that flies and a time that takes its toll. Her experience of time was something that was always passing, moving or flowing. Not still and not silent. She lived in, and by, and was caught in time until that time she helped a friend (she was more sister than friend) and was in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Gaging time in prison takes practice and ... well, time to master, so to speak. She measures her day with the three meals she gets — breakfast, lunch and dinner equates to morning, afternoon and evening. Noises is also a great indicator, but it's always so fucking loud in here. Over seventy women in an enclosure, all of them talking and laughing and shouting and clanking something and someone is always bound to be too loud and rambunctious and inconsiderate (and have led to plenty fights) and all of it is happening at the same time, simultaneously, all day and everyday.
Even at night, at 'lights out', though a lot quieter.
Let that image sink in for a minute.
It is bound to drive anyone over the edge.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
All there is in prison is time and time, itself. And some people have a lot of it. But there is no clock for them to calculate and gage time — not one that is visible to them because she hears it like clockwork every night, so she knows it's here somewhere.
It exists. It taunts. It calms her nerves.
Most nights, she lulls to sleep with it in the background, too exhausted from standing up twelve hours straight at her job in laundry, minus the half an hour for waiting in line at the chow hall and the few minutes she gets to sit down and eat. Tonight, though, it's driving her incessantly insane and it doesn't help that the baby is insisting her to munch on ice ... or something cold and frozen.
Where is she going to get ice? There is no 7-eleven here.
And her back aches, her feet, too, and she's so hungry she could eat a whole cow and there's nothing she can do about it.
This is what time is to her in prison.
Late night cravings where she can't do anything to satisfy them. It's not like she has Derek to go out and satisfy those cravings for her.
She needs to be present for count at specified times. She needs to be at her job assignment not a minute late. She needs to know when the phones cut off for the night. Because that's the end of the day, an indication that she would be doing this all over again tomorrow.
Sometimes when Derek comes to visit, she'd ask him for the date since it's fairly easy to lose track of it in here. She'd know the day because it'd be visitations and she doesn't have to work, which is what happens on the weekends.
'Day-off'. Yes, those who have jobs do get day-offs.
Weekdays are horribly mundane and boring on a good day in prison.
Wake up. Shower. Eat. Count. Job. Eat. Count. Job. Eat. Count. Sleep.
That's the basic rundown of her day. Every day. Sometimes she'd change it up a little bit with a phone call in the evenings. Or she'd be escorted to the infirmary — they used to take her to a free clinic hours away in the free world (which is another horrible experience on it's own) for her 'check-up' because the regular doctor they had was out on vacation. She uses the parenthesis because all they do is the bare minimum (so they don't get sued because she cannot complain that they were not providing her with healthcare.) and that's pushing it.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
Fridays are her favourite, though, mainly for the coffee cakes that they serve for breakfast, which she'd wake up for as early as four in the morning just to wait in line at chow.
She's gotten pretty good at telling time by the meals and noises and the Friday breakfast special and she doesn't mind it, she has to do it like this in order to save her sanity. She had to forget all and what she knew about life on the outside and live in the present.
This is her present.
Prison.
Because prison is like a world within a world. A forgotten world. Her life is essentially on hold while the 'real' world around her, for how ever long she'd be stuck in here, continues on without her.
Her family. Her Derek. Her friends. Medical school.
It seemed so ancient, a lifetime ago, when she was in medical school and on top of her class.
She used to be so good.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
On her second week in prison, her cellie tells her that she's not getting out. That she is essentially stuck in here until they tell her that she can leave.
They. They. They. They.
She always has to listen to and take orders from the 'theys' and 'thems'; they call the shots; they are the ones who can keep her here and in solitary confinement for months and months on end. And she isn't going back there again. No. And she can't risk having her baby by herself in SHU. That would be and is a nightmare.
"You're at their mercy whether you like it or not."
Someone tried to 'test' her a few weeks into her stay.
She had been in the fields from dusk till dawn for most of twelve hours rakingand, on some days, trowelingthe ground (she's new, a Class 4, so she has to work her way up to a Class 2 to get the 'decent' or more 'desirable' jobs, which could take up to about 30 days to level up each classification) when she walked into her cell and saw three women she recognised sitting on her bed and she remembered then, what her cellmate had told her on her second day : "You're a fish [new prisoners] and you just scream privileged. It's so obvious and they will exploit that from you if you let them. This is prison; you have to be ready for a fight at all times, even though you've never fought a day in your life out on the streets."
She's never been in a fistfight whatsoever, not a day in her life. But she thinks she remembers the mechanics of throwing a punch. Archer had taught her in ninth grade when Billy Dresden kept bothering her in PE because she was small and flat-chested in comparison to the other girls; she was a late-bloomer.
Prison is all about survival. It's her or them. Because if she would have let them go about their business in her business, she'd never see the end of it until (if) she gets out.
"And don't be polite about it, Montgomery. They don't respond to 'please' or 'do you mind'. Be rude. They're not Hannibal Lecter."
And as much as she hates it when people touches her things and being in her space, she really isn't ready to be involved in any kind of fight this early on, or, to be honest, ever, because she really needs to get out of here on good behaviour. She cannot afford to be picking fights, but she also doesn't want to be labelled as a pushover or for the women to walk all over her.
Prisons are not made for people like herself.
She swallowed the lump in her throat, willed her voice not to shake. "Did I give you permission?" she didn't wait for a response, "No. You can't come into my cell without permission. Now, go over there. You live there." she pointed towards the direction of their cells.
"Torres gave us permission," One of the three countered.
Why sit on her bed, then?
But she'd bet on her life that Callie didn't.
"I don't care. I didn't. This is my cell too. I'll let her know you guys stopped by."
They looked at her for a good whole minute, they were sure to make her cave, she didn't though, and they got up at left.
And when they left, she released a breath she didn't know she was holding and it was only then she noticed that her hands were shaking.
The first night, her first night, she didn't sleep at all. Not a wink. And she couldn't, even if she tried. And besides, there was this impossibly execrable ticking from the clock, that was feet and feet away from her cell, that kept her awake.
(and would for many nights to come.)
She was terrified, and that was not even an accurate portrayal, word, adjective to describe what she had felt. She was way past terrified that she was sure there wasn't a word to describe how scared she was because — what the fuck was she doing with a compound full of criminals?
(well, she's one of them, now. in paper, in record, she is and will always be one of them, and that's where it matters.)
She was shaking and not because she was cold. It was April and warm enough for the beginnings of spring. To make matters worse, the prison was swarming with flies. She had no idea where they'd come from, and she had never seen so many before. All she wanted was to not accidentally breathe in one and choke on them while she was sleeping. She needed to come up with a way for them to leave her alone, but all she had was a towel-thin-so-called-blanket, that could barely fit her entire frame, to keep them from biting her long limbs and having to itch all night long.
She wanted to cry so badly and waste all her tears away, because she is in ... prison.
Prison.
PRISON!
She should cry, she reckoned, let it all out, have one good cry until her head started pounding, so that she wouldn't want to bawl her eyes out every single night henceforth.
Because slowly, as the day edged towards night (she had spend most of her first day sitting in bed and watching everyone go about their life as though this was normal) it had all started to become so surreal for her. And when she was finally all alone in her thoughts, when her 'roommate' walked into their shared cell and used the 'bathroom', that's when it clicked in her head, that she'd better get used to this life, this change in privacy and quickly, too, because sooner or later, she would be needing to use the 'facilities'.
She kept to herself on her top bunk, didn't dare look at her cellmate, except for when she gave her a heads up that she'd be doing the numbertwo. She supposed she ought to do the same thing when — oh, but she prayed and hoped and planned to never have to. She'd rather end up in hospital because having to defecate in a cell with someone right next to you is humiliating and dehumanising.
That night, she didn't ask for her cellmate's name or try to make any small talk and she didn't, too. And so she decided to keep her tears and emotions to herself for tonight because she didn't want her cellmate to think that she was a weakling, especially not since the women, when she went to chow hall for dinner, let it be known to her of what her cellmate had done to end up in here.
Were they rumors? Were they not?
She didn't know and she would never ask. Someone at the county jail had told her to never ask that question — what are you in for? — if she wants to stay alive till the end of her sentence.
Keep to yourself. Mind your own business.
The women were only trying to scare her off, she told herself — but off to where exactly?
It had somehow only dawned on her, then — right now at 'lights out' — that prison will be her home for the next X number of years, and that didn't happen at sentencing, not when the judge hit his gravel. Not when she was being fingerprinted, or placed in a holding cell beneath the court before they transferred her to jail, not in the six hour drive up here, and not during intake, which she had to block from her memory and mind just to get through it. No. It felt like a revelation struck in lightning just for her. All the smells, all the sights and the dull, depressing colours, the women and guards in bright blue uniforms, her prison blues as well, with her prison (basically sole-less) shoes and prison bra and underwear that were a size too small and big, respectively, and itches — it all screamed "YOU'RE IN FUCKING PRISON".
She had managed to be the first Montgomery to land herself in prison. This is a correctional facility, not science camp or a sleepover. They will correct her in here. She will be corrected and be ready for society once again, where she'll come out labeled as a convict, felon, an outcast. But that's not what matters to her most, not the labels, itself, but how it's going to affect her and her future. Because how is she going to get a job with a felony record.
She already can't ever be a doctor. She can't travel the world.
Her life is over. It ends here, with prison. She might as well never get out and let her roommate smother her in her sleep.
The tangent loop she was going around and around in her head must have been screaming at loud like a banshee because her roommate seems to be saying something. "Shut your eyes, Montgomery," she heard her whisper and her heart thudded painfully loud in her chest. It's her first day and she's already gotten onto her roommate's bad side. "If I was gunna fight you, you'd know about it. I'm not gunna kill you in your sleep, I'd take it outside. Have you given me a reason to fight you, Montgomery?"
Had she?
She didn't think so and she had no plans or desires to fight her roommate, ever.
"I — I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to —"
Her roommate clicked her tongue, then.
What was it now?
"Never apologise. Don't be soft. You won't make it through the week with that goodie attitude, Montgomery. You make a mistake, you stand your ground, even though you know you're in the wrong because they're going to do the same. It doesn't matter who's right or wrong in here. This is prison. Forget everything you learned on the streets. You're here to do time and survive. It's you or them. It's us or the COs. That's it. There's no reform and all that fucking bullshit — You listening?" she asked in a harsh whisper. Not an angry one, just a harsh and loud enough one for only her to hear and not anyone else, and definitely not the COs because she imagine she'd get written up for it.
Nodding quickly, "Yes," she said after realising that her roommate, of course, wouldn't be able to see her since she, herself, was on the top bunk.
She hadn't slept in a bunk bed since third grade science camp.
"Now, get some sleep. Your real first day in prison starts tomorrow. And boy, it's gunna be a long ass day for you." she heard the lilt in her voice and she didn't know if it was an encouragement or a threat.
"Thank you." she said instead.
Somehow that was also wrong because her roommate started to groan, she sensed that she was annoyed with her, and she could practically see her rolling her eyes now.
But for the life of her, she didn't know what she had said or done that was in the wrong. "You need some street in you, Montgomery. Forget what your momma taught you. That won't do you any good up in here. They'll walk right all over you."
"So, act like I've got no manners, you mean?"
"No. That's not what I said," she said slowly as though talking to a child, "What I meant is choose the right time and right people to be nice to. But don't be an asshole to everyone, that's how you'd get your ass whopped. You don't just look tough, you have to sound the part, too."
She nodded. "That makes sense."
"I know."
The statement hang heavy in the air between them, devastating in its honesty. After a while of silence, when she thought her roommate couldn't possibly have fallen asleep already, she cleared her throat before asking, "Hey ... Are you still awake?"
She made a noncommittal noise in response, clearly she wasn't. "What is it, Montgomery?"
"What is your name?"
"Don't tell me those girls hadn't already told you my name," her roommate said, shaking her head. She heard it as her curls rustle against the hard cotton of the pillowcase.
Her roommate must have seen them at dinner swarming around her like the flies that live here —
And she didn't understand what transpired next because one minute, she was lying down, she was calm, she was collected, she was fine (as fine as one could be in prison), she was listening to her roommate, and the next, her heart started jackrabbiting out of the blue, pounding out threatening rhythms in her chest like it was wanting to runaway. Then, it was her ears — loud ringing was what she heard and not Callie Torres anymore and before she knew it, she was trying her best to gulp down whatever breath she could swallow, but her throat felt like it was being gripped in a vice.
She panicked and she panicked as one failure led to another. Try as hard as she might, she just couldn't seem to loosen the tight, panicked knot in her chest. So, she closed her eyes. She couldn't deal with this right now. But then again, she didn't think she could deal with anything right now. The weight of her entire existence was too heavy on her shoulders.
Breathe, she thought to herself, breathe it all out.
But she couldn't. She just couldn't release this lump of stress out from her chest, she couldn't let it go, because she felt as though it had permanently found a home to fester in, to disease and grow.
Because now she's in a cop car and they're taking her to the nearest precinct.
A door slamming down the hall ricochetted through her, and that was the first time she had ever been handcuffed or arrested (she got into a bit of trouble with the law for unpaid parking tickets and a DUI when she was a teen in Connecticut but it wasn't something money couldn't fix). They had put her in a women's holding cell with twelve of them altogether, mainly addicts and street walkers, all either smoking a cigarette or curled in a corner, sleeping 'it' off.
All she could think of at that moment was how she had her psychiatry rotations tomorrow and she wasn't ready for it even in the slightest.
That was when she spent eighteen hours working her way through various stages of the NYPD's booking process and discovered the several painful realities of the criminal justice system in New York City.
"that 24-hour shit sounds good and all, but we can keep you here as long as we want. You could be here for 94 hours — I don't care."
But she's still only in the precinct and she remembered them taking her out of the holding cell, strapped her in handcuffs so tight that left her wrists bloody and raw, as though she was planning to run off in a building filled with cop and guns holstered to their belts, and they stuffed her into a tiny room with huge end-to-end mirrors on opposite walls. She knew there were people on the other side, watching her, watching them. She wasn't sleeping through the eighties; she knew that they were one-way mirrors and somehow, foolishly, it was only then that it registered in her head that she was in there to be interrogated.
But what for?
What ever happened to due process?
She didn't do anything. She didn't do any of what they were accusing her of. It was all wrong, twisted into another story because that wasn't what actually happened.
She tried to explain again and again, over and over, pleading for them to just listen to her, but they wouldn't. They didn't want to hear what she had to say, but she wouldn't — couldn't tell them the honest truth either. She couldn't because she wasn't alone in the car. Regardless, they had already made up their minds and to them, whatever she was spewing were just plain lies and fallacies.
"If you don't tell us the truth, the prosecution is going to make an example out of you."
She would have to conform to their version of the truth, that was what they had meant.
"I know your type. We see it all the time. Daddy bought your apartment. Daddy pays for your tuition. You get an allowance. Rich kids like you have it easy. Y'all think you're above the law and you always get away with it. But not this time, Daddy won't be able to pay your way out this."
That was when she knew she might have just dug her own grave earlier by trying to explain what had happened and that the REAL truth, to which they didn't care about, will not even be able to set her free; she needed a lawyer.
"Iwant to make a phone call."
"You will get your call. But you have to answer to us first."
They questioned her some more. They screamed at her some more. They threatened her a lot more and accused her like she hadn't already heard it all in the last four hours. And through it all in that tiny room, where she was scared shitless, she didn't shed a tear. All those years of Bizzy instilling her the power to not cry anywhere but in her bedroom really did paid off.
"I want a lawyer." — was all she said time and time again, voice low, though she knew she sounded a lot more confident than how she really was feeling inside. She was so visibly shaking and by the end of it, her teeth were chattering so bad that she could hardly even speak. She knew they had purposefully lowered the temperature to torture her into confessing to their version of truth.
They left and they came back, they left and they came back with a Starbucks and doughnuts but she didn't take any of it. Though, as the hours ticked by, there were moments where she was sure she'd break.
Because she just really wanted to cry. She was tired, cold, hungry, so pale that her lips were turning purple, she noticed when she looked at herself in the one-way mirror. She was only wearing a T-shirt because it was sticky hot September and not fucking freezing January, and her head was pounding so bad as well, that it felt like it was going to explode.
Because three huge men with body holsters and in windbreakers that screamed VICE at the back were shouting in her face, literally inches from her, spittle flying everywhere and landing on her lip, here, there and everywhere in between, and were demanding to know whom she was working for.
I'm a medical student, she thought to herself.
"I want a lawyer," she said through chattering teeth.
When it was all over, they threw her back into the damp and hot holding cell and she fell to her hands and knees. She didn't know if they had done it on purpose but she tripped all the same.
A sweet girl, whom she landed right beside, with track marks up and down her arms helped her up, though.
"Jessica." she said in introduction.
"Addison."
"What'd you do, Addison?" she asked.
"Well, I — " she started, wrapping her arms around herself, still shaking, "I don't really know."
At that point, she still hadn't had her phone call yet.
..
Presently, someone from afar was calling her name. It felt like her head was underwater.
"Derek?"
Her head felt like it was going to explode.
Bizzy was right, she couldn't do anything right. She always managed to mess things up for herself and make them worse because she managed to get herself arrested yet again, a month, after posting bail — after violations the Order of Protection.
She wasn't in the same Central Booking the second time, she was in Manhattan, but it stank all the same, just as it did in Brooklyn. She wasn't scared this time around though, mainly because she had just been tased and manhandled to the ground and slammed onto the hood of a police car and she was just so thoroughly exhausted, and in pain that she just wanted to sleep and not be disturbed.
Things couldn't possibly get any worse than this, she thought to herself. This had to be what rock bottom is. This has to. She was just literally shoved to the ground, her cheek was pressed onto the asphalt, which left her with road rash and a bruise around her eye from when the cop slammed her on the cop car.
She did what she did the second time, she deserved to be arrested the second time and she will stand by it but she won't stand by what they were accusing her of.
..
She tried to breathe, but she couldn't. Her breath quickened and a pain in her heart.
Was this a panic attack? Am I really having a panic attack right now?
..
When she received a summons in the mail, explaining that the grand jury had indicted her, she was arraigned for yet the third time in her entire life. Her passport and travel documents were confiscated since she had the means and money to 'skip town' and her bail was set higher than they were previously, up until her trial (most cases don't even go to trial), which never went that far because she had signed a plea agreement as per Archer's brilliant plan.
He came to her apartment the morning before her schedule sentencing so that they could go over the plan. Because they had planned to more than just 'skip town' so as to speak. Archer had had everything ready — passports, money, their new names and their cover story.
"This is wrong, Archer," she said, shaking her head as she flipped through their very genuine looking but very fake passports.
"So is what they're doing to you, Addison. I won't let my baby sister go to prison."
The plan was for her to leave the night before her sentencing, after the bail bondsmen and cops had come over for one of their 'surprise' check-ins, in which, she had to be home or be somewhere near the vicinity so she could go back home as quickly as possible because if not, she'd be sent straight to the county jail for violating her bail conditions.
She had already packed a bag that afternoon and had hid it somewhere the cops will never find. Then, once she was out, they would meet up at the corner of Waverley Place, next to the bookstore where there was a blind spot, and then, they'll drive to the airport and they'll run off to either Spain or France and never come back or at least until the statute of limitation had passed.
It sounded so simple, so easy to execute — all she had to do was act out a part and she'd been doing exactly that her entire existence — and even if it would make her look more guilty of the crime she didn't commit, she was determined to follow through.
She was going to escape.
..
But that obviously didn't happen.
Because she's right here, in prison, having the worst panic attack of her life.
Because they somehow didn't account for Derek not listening to her and showing up unannounced at her apartment just before she was about to make her escape.
She had called him earlier in the day to tell him not come over because she would very much rather like to be alone for the night and she'd just see him in court in the morning.
Because there was a knock on the door just as she was about to open it to leave. A bag in her hand, she froze as if one wrong step would detonate her whole life. It still very much could. She swallowed — maybe it was all in her head, but then, there was another knock, harder and louder this time, all-confirming that it wasn't.
Please don't let it be the cops, please don't let it be the cops, she prayed and prayed for God to be on her side for once because she didn't want guns pointing in her face anymore.
It wasn't the cops; they didn't announced themselves, or threaten to break down her door. She heard keys chiming before the doorknob started to jiggle and the next thing she knew, the door was opening and there they were — her boyfriend and his best friend with bags of takeout, and both looking at her with wide eyes as they looked back and forth from her and the bag in her hand.
She nearly had a heart attack all the same.
To be honest, though, she would very rather it be the cops since it'd be easier to deal with them.
She could see a patchwork of thoughts running through Mark's face, maybe he wanted to make a joke to lighten the mood (it would only be fitting for him to do so), but he didn't.
He just cleared his throat. "Umm — I will leave you two —" he gestured with his free hand between Derek and her before turning and leaving, "I'll be downstairs."
Her bag was still in her hand, she was still frozen in place and all Derek did for a long while was dart at her than down at her bag, her and her bag and all over again.
"You packed lightly," he stated, voice drained and he closed the distance between them.
"There isn't much to pack," she replied and their eyes locked. He looked so sad with tears in eyes and a deep frown etched on his face.
"You weren't going to say goodbye," another statement, not a question. "Don't leave like this, Addie," His words held a plea to them. She wondered if he was begging her to not leave because he knew it might be forever.
"I wrote you a letter explaining," she said, pointing at the paper on the coffee table, "I only signed the plea deal because I had a plan."
"To jump sentencing, you mean? Did you know they weren't going to grant you bail? Your lawyer told me that. Do you even know how much trouble you're going to be in? They're going to get a warrant for your arrest. They're going to find you. Your plea deal will most likely be revoked. You could possibly get the maximum. That's twenty five years, plus more because of this."
"Don't you think I know that?"
"Well, I think you haven't thought this through enough."
She couldn't believe her ears and she narrowed her eyes at him "How dare you?" she yelled, raising her voice and making Derek flinch because of her sudden reaction. "How dare you say that to me?"
"Addison, I didn't —"
"No," she came closer, advancing onto him, eyes narrowing and he backed away, panicked and uncomprehending, "No. You meant it. And you have no idea what I've been going through. While you're in school and learning, I've done nothing but think these last two week. I've been right here, in my apartment. I don't go out because I'm afraid I'll get arrested all over again — This is all on your family, Derek." she stared at him, poked a pointed finger at him, furious. But it was a quiet, dangerous rage, boiling behind her eyes, swelling inner throat.
There was a long, weighted silence before she spoke again. "Your mother never liked me. She must be pleased she's finally getting me away from you." she exhaled shakily at that, and she brought a hand to her mouth to keep herself from crying.
She will not cry. She will not cry, she told herself, clenching her jaws so tight her teeth were grinding with each other.
Her chest constricted as she considered why Carolyn Shepherd didn't quite like her. She was always nice to her. She was always polite to her. She never did anything to hurt Derek or push him away from them. She had always treated her daughters like they were her own sisters. She loved them like they were her family. But — don't you know, blood is thicker than water?
And she's not blood not like Amy is.
Sometimes, more so these past seven months, she wished she had never met Derek.
"Addie, come on, that's not true." he encircled one hand around her wrist gently and she rolled her eyes at that, impatient, and pulled away from his grasp. "I'm not stupid, Derek. She left me in that precinct. She saw me, I know she did." To which Carolyn Shepherd said that she did not ("I would have gotten her out of there if I knew, Derek. Believe me."), "She looked me straight in the eye, Derek, when I was in that holding cell."
When Carolyn Shepherd came to pick Amy up from the precinct — because she was a minor and all, she wasn't subjected to the treatment she got — she didn't even have the decency to tell Derek that she too had been arrested or helped get her a lawyer so she could get out of there sooner.
Mrs. Shepherd! Thank God. I'm so glad to see you. Is Amy alright?
But it was like she didn't know her at all. She took one look at her and left.
She had to do that all on her own in Central Booking, though she did make a couple of phone calls in the precinct a few hours after the interrogation. No one had picked up her calls. Not Archer. Not Derek nor Mark. Her parents weren't in the country, so there was no point in phoning them.
She had never felt as alone as she felt at that moment on that cold cement bench in Central Booking.
After a moment, he turned his face away, murmuring a tiny, heartbroken apology. "I'm so sorry."
"Derek," she sighed, "It wasn't your fault."
"I don't know why she'd do that," each word was heavy with a weary apology, and this time she didn't protest. "I don't know, Addie. But I know for sure that I'm never speaking to her ever again. I can't forgive her for this. I will never."
"Derek," she started, takes a few steps forward and rests a gentle hand on his forearm. She didn't want to be the rift between him and his family, "They're your family."
Her eyes clouded with exhaustion, her pale face increasing the look of a worn out woman. The urge to protect her increased and he pulled her towards him, cradling her face in his hands and caressing her cheeks with his thumb. "You're my family. You're the only family I need."
Addison leaned into his hands, enjoyed the warmth spreading into her through them and her lips gazed his wrist in a sudden want to feel his skin.
Probably will be her last time.
"I'll go with you." he said quickly, all in one breath. And if she wasn't listening and waiting for him to say something further, she would have most definitely missed it.
"What?"
She took a large step back, away from his warmth.
"I'll go with you. Wherever you're going. I'm not leaving you."
"No." she scoffed, shaking her head. "No. You'll be — what's that called — harbouring a fugitive. No, Derek. They'll put you in prison, too."
"And what about Archer?" he lifted an eyebrow, challengingly.
Reality fell like a cleaver between them, and Addison's face turned somber, pretense of normalcy gone. "How'd you know?"
"Because this plan sounds as convoluted as your brother."
"But Archer wants to do this." she explains.
"And I do too."
"I won't let you, Derek."
"I'm not asking for your permission." he held out both hands to her.
She took what he was offering and interlaced their fingers together. "What about medical school?"
One of them should have their dreams come true, at least. She had already been expelled months ago, since it all started. And with a felony and possibly fugitivus, she could never be a doctor.
She knew he could read her thoughts then, and they just looked at each other for long moments, wide-eyed and filled with goodbyes. Derek brought his arms up around her back, and she stood there letting it happen. She didn't move. She barely breathed. She let out a shuddering breath against his shirt, and she think she might be crying as she wrapped her arms around him.
They leaned into one another, drawing strength from each other or maybe consuming it. Burning it on a pyre.
She didn't want to have to let go.
Ever.
They stood there forever, and for a while, for the first time since this whole debacle began, she didn't have to think.
"Screw medical school. I don't want to spend another day without you. I love you, Addie."
Without hesitation he leaned down and captured her lips with his, devouring her mouth like it was his only thing to hold on. Addison felt this was goodbye, and she couldn't stop the sob escaping her lips while he still kissed her.
..
She wanted to get up. She wanted to get out of this stupid bunk bed. She needed to breathe.
God, she couldn't breathe.
"Calm down," she whispered to herself. She could feel herself working herself up worse. Nevertheless, she somehow made it to the cold and concrete ground.
She suddenly felt cold and flushed at the same time and she pulled her blanket tightly around her. Her breathing was so quick now, it felt like her lungs weren't letting in any air at all.
Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.
She was trying to control the burning anxious pit in her stomach, repeating that everything was going to be just fine when Torres told her that she couldn't do that with her blanket but her throat tightened all over again and she couldn't say anything like — why?
"You need to get back up there, Montgomery, before they see you." Torres warned her.
"I need — I need the bathroom." she tried to sound light and casual but was not sure she was pulling it off.
She didn't need to use the 'bathroom'. And even if she needed to, she don't think she can with people around her.
No. No. No.
She could hear her pulse now — loud and fast — in her ears as she threw her blanket off around her. She started to burn up even more; and the blanket landed on the floor. Upon hearing shuffling behind her, she turned around, she could see her roommate, her head cocked to one side, watching her with a look of confusion and — although she couldn't quite place why, that look made her feel worse.
She glanced up at the foliage, and suddenly she felt like the walls and everything were closing in above her.
"Montgomery?" came a whisper from the darkness. "You alright?"
She turned back around. It was her roommate, but her expression was so dead serious. It scared her. Her chocolate brown eyes were replaced with concern.
The tightness in her chest clenched again.
"I'm fine." She turned back towards the wall, braced her hands there. She breathed more heavily now, starting to panic at the lack of air and she clutched at her chest.
She tried to take a deep breath, but it got caught at the back of her mouth. The ceiling above her were definitely getting closer, the light fading rapidly from the other side. She leaned against a wall, trying to steady the shaking of her knees.
She'd never had a panic attack before, but she knew something like this was bound to happen sooner or later; she just didn't ever think that it'd be in prison.
Addison tried so hard to hold back her tears. Not to let her roommate see that she was on the verge of a breakdown. She kept her right hand against her mouth, biting hard on her lip to try and prevent a full out breakdown. But she had this huge ache in her stomach that wouldn't leave her alone.
One little pearl of water slowly made its way down her cheek, but no sound came out of her mouth. She could feel actual pain of trying so hard to keep herself from crying. There was just so much a normal girl could take. She knew. She just knew worse was coming and she wanted to know that she would be okay, that she would get out of here soon enough. She wanted to know that she was here and there was nothing to be ashamed of.
"Montgomery?" She heard her name, and realised she'd closed her eyes as her thoughts overtook her. When she opened them Torres was peering into her face, her face glowing with disbelief. "Are you for real?" Her hand was on her shoulder, then she groaned, "Good Lord, Montgomery, don't tell me you're having a panic attack right now. You just got here."
She couldn't reply, her throat was closing up inside her and each breath was more difficult than the one before it. Her head swam and her insides clenched up within her.
"Montgomery." Torres's hands gripped her tightly, giving her a little shake. "Alright, Montgomery, take a deep breath. You're fine — you're not lost. You're in prison. You're in your cell. You're with me."
Okay. Torres grounding words echoed in her brain, and she suddenly realised how dry her mouth was —and a wave of nausea hit her, her stomach flipping over inside her.
"Come on, deep breaths now." Torres repeated, giving her another small shake that upset her stomach more. She tried to take a breath, but it caught at the back of her throat again and made her gag.
The first heave was very dry; her heart was racing against the knot in her chest, and her stomach churning. She didn't even have time to warn Torres before the second heave gripped her. She was sure she could feel the contents of her stomach forcing its way up her oesophagus, then it was in her mouth. She pitched forwards, hearing the belch escape her mouth, and the ground at her feet was coated in her vomit.
Torres had moved, she could feel a hand gently patting her back and saying, "You're okay, when you can take a deep breath."
But she couldn't take any breath, almost instantly her mouth was refilled with sour liquid and another wave of puke hit the toilet this time. Her stomach was still contracting painfully, the air catching in her chest as she retched again. The hand on her back was rubbing up and down her spine as she dry heaved repeatedly.
There was a rattling on the bars of their cell then and she vaguely hears a female CO.
"Torres. What's wrong with her? Another junkie?"
"No. She's new." Torres said in way of explanation, "Is all just really starting to sink in for her."
"Handle her or with stick her in psych. Then, it'll really sink in real quick."
"I'll make sure she gets it," Torres was saying.
She wanted to say she needed to get out of here — then she'd be fine, but when she opened her mouth another heave caught her and a further wave of sickness poured out of her mouth. Her stomach muscles were really aching, and her head beginning to spin from the continual retching.
"It's the psychiatric unit." she heard Torres's worried voice, "You need relax or they'll strip you naked and keep you there until God knows when. I've been there and it's not a place you'd want to be."
Her stomach felt empty as she dry heaved towards the ground. She just needed to take a breath, then her head would stop swimming and they'd be able to get to sleep once again.
"I — uuurpp!" The heave came right after the breath, and a grinding pain shot through her stomach. She was empty — surely the heaving had to stop.
"Deep breath, Montgomery," Torres's voice was clear, "In through your nose, out through your mouth." she managed the in bit, but once the air was inside her, a retch forced its way out.
"And again." That time she managed it better, in and out.
"And again." She did it again and the tightness in her chest began to ease up, as did the swimming sensations in his head. "That's it, keep going." Torres encouraged, her hand still rubbing on her back.
"I ..." she tried to speak, but her throat was gravelly and it burned; she was still trembling from head to foot. "I really need to get out of here." She struggled to sit on the ground, weakly.
"Don't say things like that out loud," Torres said patiently, "You'll be in solitary for the rest of your sentence. They'll keep you for conspiracy to commit escape. Just catch your breath for a second."
She felt like she'd been hit by a bus, weak and shaky all over.
"Please, I can't breathe in this box." she urged, the panicked sensation rising in her chest again.
Torres grabbed hold of Addison's trembling hand and said, "It's this box or psych or seg. And I'll take this box any day. I don't know what you did, Montgomery, but you're in prison now. The sooner you get that in your head, the easier it will be for you. Well, not easier — it will never get easier — but, you take it one day at a time."
"I — I can't," she choked out almost sobbing, "breathe" she wheezed looking absolutely terrified.
"Look at me," Torres says and she pushed her back flat against the wall, "Follow my voice."
"Imagine a stream," she said.
Addison closed her eyes, but in the dark behind her lids she could see another image superimposed — Derek in Torres's place, soothing words, and a quiet stream.
'Derek's' hands were stroking through her hair, gently like she last remembered. It was only a few days ago but it already felt like years had passed since she's seen him. "A quiet, peaceful stream. The sun is shining, and you can feel it warm on your skin."
She tried to picture it, she really really tried, but continued to speak through cotton mouth the entire time and voicing her despair for not being able to breathe.
"You wade into the water. It's warm around your ankles. You're all alone, and there's nothing to fear. The birds sing in the trees."
"I can't!" she shrieked as loud as she could with the small breath she had, which wasn't loud enough to bring attention from the prison guards.
'Derek' just hushed her and looked at her sternly. "Try." he said looking at her with his concern filled, and horror ridden eyes, all the while clutching her hand.
Try.
Finally, she did try. She took one deep breath before concentrating in letting it out, nice and slow.
"You're totally safe."
She's totally safe.
"Derek ..."
"You can feel free to relax and let the current carry you." 'Derek' said softly, smoothing the hair from her eyes and tucking them behind her ear.
She felt free. She floated and let the current take her anywhere she ought to be.
"Nothing will happen to you here."
It's then that 'Derek' intertwine their fingers together, squeezing her hand tightly.
"Nothing will happen to me here." she repeated.
'Derek' agreed with a smile, wiping her tears away with his sleeve and she pulled him closer as she pressed her forehead against his, nervously making their noses touch.
He spoke so close to her lips that she could actually feel the word, "Montgomery," roll out of his tongue. But the strange thing was that it was not even his voice she hear this time and she didn't really care because she feels safe.
'Derek' leaned forward just a little so there was barely a breath of air between them and dusts his lips over hers.
Maybe it made a certain kind of sense. Maybe it made sense here, at the end of the world where she couldn't leave this hell and nothing could matter but this moment — 'Derek' is here — and she too pressed her lips to hers, just once, a peck.
She felt all tingly. Calm. She felt less alone. Calm. She felt less like she was in prison.
It tasted like crying, though.
Moments passed, Addison had finally come down from her panicky cloud and she'd managed to climb back up to her bunk bed without making a further fool of herself.
She lay down, shut her eyes, had no idea how much time had passed since her panic attack started, or what time it was, and she breathed in with her nose and breathed out with her mouth — breathing continually to even out over the next few minutes. Eventually, she opened her eyes and sunk further into this poor excuse of a mattress and looked up at the ceiling.
They didn't talk about it — about what just happened, or who kissed whom, or why — and she don't think she can handle it right now (or ever).
It's so embarrassing.
She told herself that it was because she thought it was Derek.
But her subconscious knew.
Right?
She was just scared, that was it, petrified of getting on Torres' bad side from all the rumours she had heard at dinner.
It was then that her stomach growled loudly.
"Montgomery, I can hear your stomach." Torres deadpanned.
"I'm sorry. I'm just — I haven't eaten all day."
She let out an exasperated sigh then; she practically heard her eyes rolling. "You newbies think you can wait until your commissary comes in — but don't you know you'll starve to death till by then." It's not a question, she thought, but nonetheless, she heard a box being opened and it closed.
It looked like her cellmate was pretending it didn't happen, as well.
After two more deep breaths, Torres was standing on her own bed, so she could reach up to the top bunk. Facing her once again. "Here. I call it FOREO." Torres said, a little too close for her comfort and she handed her a packet of cookies.
She pushes back a little toward the wall .
"Fake OREOs. These are the only good ones in commissary."
There was something in the way that Torres looked at her that made her glance up. It reminded her of home. She looked this time, really looked, seeing past the usual dark circles and exhausted lines that came with prison.
Torres couldn't be any older than her.
She looked like a girl trying to be tough in a world full of vultures.
"Oh. I can't."
It did kind of looked like OREOS.
"Don't be stupid. Have it. I won't charge you extra. Just a packet of these will do when your money comes in." Torres said and she sat up, taking the FOREO offered. "Thank you. I promise I'll pay you back."
Torres made a noncommittal sounds as she explained to her how debts are settled in prison; it's double the amount every day you don't pay back.
Two becomes four, and four becomes eight, eight becomes sixteen on the fourth day and the rest of her explanation was lost to the roar of blood in her ears, she swallowed once, twice because she's so hungry, she salivating, basically drooling for prison cookies as she tore open the the packet.
"You know what, I wish I had me as a bunkie when I was a newbie. Instead I got ... an addict. Then, a nut case who drowned her kids because 'they' told her to. That sicko almost drowned me too."
Addison took an eager bite of the FOREO, having eaten nothing since jail last night, peanut butter sandwich, and almost spat it out altogether because it was too sweet — so much so that it hurts her teeth.
"One thing you should know — don't let the COs see you trading food. They'll write you up for 'trafficking and trading'."
"Trafficking and trading?"
"It's dumb, I know," she heard the ruffling of the rough cloth of the pillowcase as Torres nodded, "It's a minor disciplinary report. But you're gonna loose privileges — phone, visit, commissary, everything. Now, finish up quick, and sleep. Morning starts at five."
She planned to wake up at four, so she could take a shower alone, or at least have less people in there with her while she was naked, when most are asleep.
Once she was done eating, she closed her eyes, felt them grow heavier and heavier while wild perfidy fluttered in her chest, reckless and all-consuming.
"Montgomery?"
She mumbled a 'yes'.
"Don't believe every thing those girls tell you." Was the last thing she heard before she closed her eyes.
Hey guys! Thanks for reading! So Addison is in prison. What do you guys think of this chapter? Its a long one but i would really like to know what you guys think. Please leave a review!