62 Jamie
It’s been over a week, and every day they tell me I have visitors. Every day, I decline.
I’ve been told it can take years for a murder case to go to trial.
Years of this- of them coming here, sitting across from me, wasting their time and energy on someone locked up and waiting for a verdict that already feels inevitable.
I can’t stomach that. It’s better to end it now, to cut things off before it drags out and rots into something worse.
At first, it felt like tearing something open, having them so close just to send them away. Now it’s routine. Now I just try not to picture their faces, not to hear their voices, not to imagine the way they’d look at me like I’m still worth saving.
It’s not that I’ve given up, not exactly. It’s just that hope feels like a joke I’m too tired to keep pretending is funny.
Things don’t work out for me. They never have.
Except for her. And even that was brief enough to feel like an error I wasn’t meant to keep.
David seems like a good lawyer- smart, confident, all that. When he laid it out, talked about working with the prosecutor, flipping someone, building a case, I almost believed him. I almost let myself think this might actually work.
But so far no one is talking and as the days pass, it gets harder and harder to keep that hope.
The only thing that’s changed is that my father is here now, charged with a litany of shit and processed and dropped into the same facility as me. It’s a particularly cruel joke of fate if you ask me.
David asked to have my dad sent somewhere else “for my safety” but that was denied. So I've just tried to avoid him.
He hasn’t made it easy though. I was certain that I was going to get raped in the shower the other night after all the shit he was saying about me to everyone.
Called me gay, a sissy boy, all that shit.
It hasn’t happened, maybe cause no one believes him or no one really fucking cares.
But either way, I keep to myself, keep my head down, and avoid my dear dad at all costs.
It’s ‘free time’ right now. Our block’s doors are open, everyone is allowed to mingle in the common space, watch tv, play games, whatever.
I stay on my back in the cell, staring at the underside of the bunk above me.
“Mail,” the guard says, throwing an envelope into our cell. It lands on the floor and I see my name written on it.
It’s taken every ounce of my strength to turn them away each day. I simply don’t have enough to ignore this too.
I open the envelope and see three folded pieces of paper in it.
Great. A coordinated guilt campaign.
I open the first one and recognize Ryan’s scrawling handwriting immediately.
J- Frankie and Christian don’t deserve this. Neither do I.
I’m your best friend, which means I’m with you in this shit too. So knock this crap off and stop being a bitch.
Ryan
I snort before I can stop myself. It’s the first real smile I’ve had in days. I know they don’t deserve to be pushed away. I’m not doing this because I don’t care. I’m doing it because I care too much.
The second note is smaller, folded neatly.
I swear I can smell Frankie the second I unfold it.
Jamie-
Please don’t shut us out. I know you think you’re doing the right thing, I know you think we are better off with you you.
We aren't. Trust me- I leanred this lesson the hard way.
You are the strongest person I know. Be strong enough to let us stand with you.
I love you. I love you. I love you.
Frankie
I sit there longer than I mean to, devastated, staring at her name until the letters blur.
I exhale and grab the last letter, obviously from Christian. As I read it, I can’t help but huff a quiet laugh.
You are mine, and I will not let you rot in there for something you didn’t do. If you don’t have enough faith in me to believe that, I’ll break in and kick your ass myself- C
God, he’s insufferable. And infuriating. And perfect.
I fold the notes back up, slide them into the envelope, and tuck it under my “pillow”- which is really just a rectangle of lifeless foam.
I sigh and go back to staring at nothing.
A shadow lands on the wall as my cellmate steps inside the cell.
“Your dad’s a real shithead,” he says casually.
I grunt in agreement, cause, yes… I’m aware.
“He’s downstairs running his mouth,” he continues. “Bragging. Says he’s got you locked up for something he did.”
Of course he’s proud. Of course he thinks this is some kind of win. What surprises me isn’t the cruelty- it’s the stupidity.
Hasn’t he ever heard of jailhouse confessions?
I swing my legs over the side of the bunk, heart thudding, mind already racing ahead to the visit I have scheduled with my lawyer later today.
For the first time in days, something cuts through the numbness.
Hope.