'Lights Out' once more and he was feeling strung out after taunts from his podmate. If he stood for 'Morning Count' with a corpse on his hands, would he live and die in solitary, a family tradition or would he end on death row? At least there he'd have someone to talk to. Stop these thoughts! He may be self-destructive as the Nun told him but not suicidal. Well, at least not now he was back on the pills. He hadn't gone through these past desperate years to be finished so easily. But finishing it did have its appeal. No more fighting, no more grief or pain.
No! He was a survivor. He'd fought for it tooth and nail for so long. He couldn't give up.
Lying on his bunk, he waited for the regular noises to indicate that Hernadez was asleep. He obviously held no dread of Alvarez. Insulting, but Miguel had to admit, realistic. Slipping from his bunk, a glance told him that Hernandez was indeed asleep. How long had it taken? Five minutes? Ten? Miguel knew he would have hours yet. His mind would not let him rest and when finally he did sleep, no doubt it would be fitful, filled with visions of blood, mutilation or possibly worse. An unknown figure causing feelings he still shied away from.
Quietly, he padded around the pod, bare feet on concrete, trying to tire himself out. Yet his body was already tired. He ached so much. Coming to the front window, he stretched with his arms high then relaxed down to sit, knees drawn up, forehead to the window and stared out.
There was not much to see. A few small lights from the Hack's station, one doing the rounds shinning torch reflecting off the Plexiglas. The beam found him. He stared into it letting the light startle his eyes leaving green spots floating and cutting out all else.
The torch lost interest and moved on. Things becoming quiet once more then a banging on a window warning the occupants to move away from each other. He didn't know where, didn't care who, he just continued staring, watching the green dots recede.
The cold began to seep into his buttocks through his boxers contrasting with the slight burning of his asshole. He would have expected it to be on fire but he hadn't been taken by force. Well, yes he had. He hadn't asked for fingers to be shoved up his arse but it hadn't been brutal. Not exactly gentle, but far from violent.
His head slid to his knees, forehead catching on the glass. The graze on his forehead was tender. He felt marked. It had caused some interest once back in the bullpen but with everyone being so used to seeing each other with scrapes, bruises and worse, he went fairly dismissed. He stared around the pods but could see no other movement except the occasional turn in sleep. No one else seemed to be peering out. Hadn't he been told to show himself? That conceit! Somehow that was the worst thing. This unknown, well he was pretty sure he knew, man just knew what affect he was having on Miguel, knew how to play his own body against him.
He began to squirm where he sat feeling the soreness, a heat growing in direct comparison to the cold seeping from the floor. He wasn't really surprised anymore at the warmth growing in his belly and a thickening of cock as he went over what had happened that afternoon. He shifted as the boxers became tight and uncomfortable. He looked across and down trying to see into Keller's pod. Was it really them? He could see nothing, the angle prevented him from seeing anything that was not directly by the window.
Was it the same back? Could he be seen from there? Being told to show himself it stood to reason whoever it was knew he would be able to see him? Or was it just another mindfuck game? Seeing how far he was willing to go along with the whole thing. Well fuck them. He wasn't playing!
He let his head fall back against the concrete wall and stared upwards trying to imagine he could see the sky. No chance. His boxers were also tight on his thighs so he stretched his legs out in front of him pulling up the fabric to inspect the marks. In the darkness of the pod he could just make out the darker lines, one on each leg, which he knew, ran near all way around, only his inner thighs clear.
Yes, he was marked. Marked out by bastards who seemed to gain their pleasure by forcibly inflicting it on others. He still couldn't grasp what they got from it. Could they really get their rocks off just by giving pleasure? Or was there more involved? Much more to come? It wasn't over he was certain.
Was it a game? A twisted game to see if they could get someone to change? Change from being totally one hundred percent hetro to be craving the attentions of another man? Surly that wasn't possible? But it was working on him! So maybe he'd been wrong in his assumptions, always playing the hard streetwise 'hombre grande'. Maybe he had always denighed something inside. No, that wasn't right was it? No. Shit, he just didn't know anymore.
Restless again, he stood and resumed the pacing. He was feeling caged in. Hell, he was caged in! He moved to the front window, once more pressing his face to the Plexiglas. Looking through cupped hands, he was hoping that if he could see the space out there he'd stop feeling as if the walls were closing in, that the cell was getting steadily smaller. Pod he reminded himself, there weren't supposed to be any cells in the Emerald City. A cynical grunt as he stretched upwards, arms high above his head onto toes, reaching for he knew not what. Then relaxing, Miguel leant his whole body against the cold plastic.
Everything about the nights here was cold. Except him, he felt like he was burning from the inside out. Arms still raised, he placed both palms spread out, forehead leaning on the coolness he hoped would seep into him. He stood there for what seemed an eternity, concentrating on the coldness that only his feet appeared to feel. He sighed stepped back and relaxed.
Turning, he threw himself onto his bunk, causing a grunt from above him. Now that made his blood run cold. Shit! But the bunk above him stayed still. Climbing under the meagre bedding, he wrapped himself up purposefully ignoring the soreness in his behind, the stirring in front and waited for sleep, oblivious to the fact that he had done exactly as he had been told.
==000==
In the queue for breakfast he wasn't hungry. He'd have thought that after being starved in solitary he would have eaten everything placed in front of him, but no. He had no appetite. He could still hear that strange overly modulated voice, "Eat my Michael." But was it that strange? He looked across the canteen finding the table where sat Beecher, Keller and their usual companions. He edged along with the slow moving line considering turning and heading to the infirmary early, but that would look suspicious. He'd been successful in smuggling out small quantities of drugs for O'Riely these last few days so didn't want to blow it by showing too eager to be there.
He felt a shove from behind. Swinging around on the defensive, he found Shillinger just stood staring at him. The man made a gesture for him to move along. A sneer and Alvarez slowly turned back to the queue, catching the eye of O'Riely who nodded slightly hinting that he needed to speak. 'Later' he nodded in return.
Moving along, getting his food slopped onto a tray, he considered where to sit. It had never been a problem until recently. He would have joined his fellow Latinos but they were not his anymore and he didn't trust them not to try something in here. Many had met violence over food. None of the groups would welcome him. In fact, most all would view him with suspicion and worse, derision. He headed to the only remotely empty seating area uncomfortably close to Rebadow and the rest. He still needed to speak to the man but this was not the time.
Five sets of eyes moved to him as he made to sit a few seats away then saw the signal to join them and, after a moments hesitation, he sat next to Brusmalis opposite Beecher. Shit. Shit. Shit. But then, fuck it, maybe he could find out for sure if this was the man haunting him. He'd had enough. He needed to know was this the man that had taken his admittedly shaky world and turned it upside down. Head in hand he toyed with his food trying to be invisible.
It seemed to have worked as the others resumed their conversation, something about an incident involving Guerra resulting in him being in intensive care in the hospital ward. Miguel's head snapped up. This must have been recent, this morning as there had been no word last night. He hadn't bothered looking at that faction other than to judge their position so had not registered a missing face. His interest was noted.
"Say? You didn't have anything to do with it did ya?" Keller asked leaning forwards and into Beecher.
"Wha..No!" he replied as Beecher pushed his podmate away. Alvarez went back to studying his food, trying to ignore the pushing match going on across the table. Gurrera was near death and he hadn't had to lift a finger, had not been involved. Things could be starting to work in his favour.
He idly wondered what had happened. He'd be able to find out when speaking to O'Riely later. That man had a morbid fascination with this kind of thing.
Beecher threw down his fork in exasperation. God, how tense must it be in their pod each night? No worse than his own, he reckoned. Seemingly wanting a distraction, Beecher spoke to Alvarez, "That good huh?" He'd noticed Miguel pushing his food around.
"Que.?"
"The food. That good?" A pause then, "You know? You should eat more! You're turning to skin and bones."
Alvarez's head slowly lifted to stare at him, his hand tightening on his fork grasping it like a shank. Unconcerned blue eyes peered back; it had only been a throwaway remark. Miguel tensed, thoughts involving the fork deep in Beecher's neck, so open, so vulnerable, just like he'd been made to feel. He lurched forwards across the table just as another spoke from a couple of seats away.
"I agree. Mikhail, you are too thin."
Miguel's hands slammed onto the table using his forward motion to swing in that direction. "What?" he spat, "For your tastes?" He wanted to scream it. Beecher had moved back, Keller forwards with death in his eyes, the canteen went silent before whispers and laughs surfaced. And the Russian? He just sat there staring at him with that incredibly annoying smile to his lips.
Alvarez's head pounded. He'd just been so sure of Beecher then that Russian had spoken that nerve jarring Michael. He looked from one to the other, his mouth twisting as he held in a scream of frustration and pain. Lost, not knowing what to do, he threw himself away from the table and ran from the hall, not caring at the spectacle he made. He just had to get away.
He stood leaning against the corridor wall, shaking until a Hack moved up, "Hey, you stayin' or goin? But move!" and he fled back to Em City to be let through the gates to the thankfully near deserted brightly lit hell that was the closest thing to home.
Back in the canteen bemused voices and expressions. "What was that all about?"
Rebadow was answered by Brusmalis whilst still shovelling food in, "Maybe he's not hungry." Beecher let out a relived laugh. He'd known violence had been heading towards him. Keller turned to the Russian, staring daggers but Nikoli just smiled to himself and continued to eat.
He had made a slip, a stupid mistake but it was time his Mikhail knew him and realised what he had done for him this morning. What he would continue to do for him. And behind the food counter Ryan thought maybe he should have spoken up earlier.
==000==
TBC...