Chapter Eighteen
Wesley
The pen feels too small in my hand.
That’s the first stupid thought that rattles through my head as I sit on the edge of my bunk, hunched over a wrinkled sheet of paper like a goddamn teenager instead of a man rotting in a concrete box.
The overhead light buzzes faintly, flickering just enough to make the words blur if I stare at the page too long.
I haven’t written her in over a year. The last few just felt too raw, like I sliced open a vein and was writing to her in blood instead of ink. They never left my notebook, and yet they felt easier to write back then. Now, they feel forced, almost fake.
From what I’ve heard, she’s disappeared from existence. She’s not in Stanford. She’s not in her apartment. Hell, no one’s heard from her in over a year.
Maybe that’s why I gave up writing her? It’s almost like I can feel her giving into her addiction, and the thought of it makes me feel helpless.
So damn helpless.
Dear Poppy,
It starts the way it always does, informal and lacking emotion. I press the pen down, the ink bleeding the words for me. I drag a hand down my face, exhaling loudly before trying again, slower this time, forcing the thoughts into something that doesn’t sound completely unhinged.
Dear Poppy,
Prison is as terrible as you’d imagine, which I’m sure doesn’t surprise you.
The food is shit, the beds are worse, and the company makes me miss people I used to hate.
You’d probably love it here. There’s plenty of assholes here you could lay into and yell at.
You’d fit right in, raising hell, pretending you’re tougher than everyone while secretly being the most terrified person in the room.
My chest clenches. I already hate this. This sounds more like a letter to a friend than the declaration it needs to be.
I miss you.
The word is scribbled three times before I stop myself.
Fuck, I love you.
I shift on the bunk, the paper trembling slightly in my hand.
Something feels off today. The air is charged with something nefarious. I’ve seen the way people are whispering, the stares that linger for far too long.
They’re all waiting for me to break.
The second I do, it’s over. I’ve done okay so far. Managed to hold my own a few times, but I’m all alone out here. No friends. No one to help me. I’ve tried buddying up with a few different groups, but I don’t trust anyone.
Even my bunkmate treats me like a leper.
Maybe that’s what I deserve? I mean, my friends are all out there while I’m rotting away in this hell hole.
Shit, I don’t know why I’m even writing this. Maybe because thinking about you makes this place feel less like a coffin. Maybe because you’re the only thing in my head that doesn’t belong to these walls.
I hesitate, the next words feeling heavier.
I keep picturing your face. The way you look at me like I’m a problem you never asked for, and how your voice gets even cuter when you’re pissed off at me.
That just means you’re cute all the time.
Because there isn’t a day that goes by where you don’t wish I was dead.
I’m joking, of course. I don’t think your hatred for me runs that cold. Does it?
Gah, this is so stupid!
I’m writing to a girl who clearly hates my guts, knowing that your image and all our memories together, are the only thing that keeps me from grabbing my sheet and hanging myself from these stupid bars. Prison makes people fucking crazy.
You’re probably still mad at me. Hell, you’re probably pretending I don’t exist. Can’t say that I blame you. Our history is pretty fucked up. But that’s why everything about us just makes sense.
The fighting… the one-sided hate… all of it hides behind one major thing. Love.
That’s right, Poppy, I’m saying it so everything is clear for both of us.
I love you.
Still...
Always…
Despite everything you’ve said and done. I love you.
Shit, I fucking went to prison for you.
And I’d do it over and over again if it keeps you outta harm’s way.
Every sword drawn, I’ll lay on for you.
You can hate me. Loathe me. Wish me dead if you want. But I’m still going to wait for you.
One day you will see me differently. You’ll realize the hate you have for me is just love in disguise.
Riggens, my cellmate, enters our cell, then just stands in the doorway, staring at me strangely.
He starts pacing around the room, mumbling shit under his breath before he finally looks up, eyes narrowing at me as he works way too hard to see the page I’m scrawling my letter on, and what I’m writing to Poppy.
“You writing your girlfriend again?” he questions.
“Mind your business.”
He chuckles. “You’re touchy today.”
I try to concentrate on how to finish the letter, but Riggens distracts me. He stands so his shadow blocks out the light, making it hard to see the page.
Something tells me that Riggens isn’t here for chitchat.
“What now, Riggens? Can’t you see I’m busy?”
He moves too fast, his rough hand clamping down onto my shoulder hard enough to draw out a sting. Before I can react, he yanks me to my feet, the notebook slipping from my grasp before collapsing uselessly to the floor, along with the pen that rolls under my cot out of reach.
Fuck, my only weapon is gone.
“What the hell are you doing?” I snap.
His expression changes. His eyes dart to the cell door a few times before it turns serious.
“You’re needed on the yard,” he mutters, his tone slightly avoidant.
“It’s not yard time.”
“Guards say otherwise.”
I know something’s off. I can see it in the way his eyes shift nervously.
I jerk my arm free, but he’s already crowding me toward the cell door, his movements tense and urgent. There’s no usual sarcasm, or playfulness this time. Just persistence to get me where he needs me.
He pushes me towards the door leading out of the housing unit, the only door that goes outside.
When it buzzes open, my heart drops to my feet. This doesn’t feel right. The door shouldn’t open this late at night.
Riggins shoves me through the threshold before I can question it, his hand hitting my back with unexpected force. I stumble onto the yard, my irritation flaring.
“Riggins, what the…”
The words die in my throat.
I’m not alone. Three men are standing in the shadows, waiting for me. A fourth appears out of nowhere.
The first impact slams into my face like a sledgehammer. Pain detonates across my jaw, my vision flashing white as my head whips sideways. I barely stay upright before another blow crashes into my ribs, driving the air from my lungs in a violent rush.
I swing at my next attacker out of pure instinct. My fist connects with something solid, earning a grunt, but it doesn’t matter. Hands grab me from behind, locking around my arms as a barrage of punches hammer into my torso with brutal precision.
“Thought you’d be smarter than this, Wesley,” a familiar voice growls, just as JP enters my line of vision.
I’ve only seen him in passing while in here.
He’s in a whole other housing unit. But not now.
Now he’s standing in front of me with vengeance in his eyes, the murderous undertones sealing my fate.
I violently thrash against his minion’s hold, managing to wrench one arm loose long enough to drive an elbow backward into someone’s stomach. Whoever it is curses before their grip loosens, allowing me to twist and throw a wild punch that cracks against someone else’s cheekbone.
For half a second, I feel like I may have the upper hand, then a boot smashes into my knee and my legs fucking buckle. Concrete greets me with open arms, and I hit hard, breaking a tooth in the process.
“OH FUCK!” I shout just as my world explodes into violence.
Kicks come out of nowhere, connecting with my ribs, my back, hitting me so hard it feels like they’re taking out a kidney. I curl into a fetal position, protecting my head, even though each hit feels like a lightning bolt of agony that rips through my body.
Laughter echoes above me.
“Moseley says hello.”
The name slices through the chaos like a blade. I know it, but only because Rich told me about it the last time he called me. He’s some asshole in Fernley who thinks he owns the whole town. But how did he get me in here? I’m not even a part of the club yet.
A savage kick drives into my midsection, forcing a choked, broken sound from my throat. I try to roll out of it, but a heel crashes into my spine, pinning me in place.
Something cracks, but I do not know what.
Still, I fight, even though my breathing feels like I’m choking on jagged glass because that is the only language this place respects.
I grab backwards blindly, fingers locking around someone’s ankle. I yank with everything I have left, and one of them goes down hard. I scramble to my knees, vision blurring, and manage to land one final punch before fists and boots crash into my skull again, knocking me back to the ground.
The corridor spins recklessly.
The blows never stop. They blur together, pain compounding into something distant and unfamiliar.
Then I feel the shank dig into my side, nicking my lung. They pull it out and plunge it a few more times on various parts of my body before swiping it across my cheek, the blood oozing down my face in rivers.
This is it. The thought arrives with terrifying clarity as breathing becomes a struggle, and the fight in me starts to wane.
I’m going to die here on this prison yard.
Blackness creeps in, dragging at my consciousness with relentless force. Every breath is a wet, ragged struggle, my body barely responding anymore.
But I cling to what little life I have left.
Because of Poppy.
Because of the idiots I call brothers back home that somehow dragged me into this mess.
Because I’m too damn stubborn to give Moseley the satisfaction of taking my first ride away from me.
Alarms erupt from somewhere far away, but I barely hear them. They sound like whispers more than calls of alert.
I drift in and out of a strange, endless void, pain fading into numbness as darkness keeps reaching for me, promising relief from the pain and torment my body has gone through.
Every time I start to slip, something pulls me back.
Her.
Always her.
Poppy’s face burns through the black void like a beacon, begging me to not abandon her like everyone else.
Hold on.
Just hold on, Wesley.
It should be my own voice begging for me to stay, but it’s not. It’s hers. The ghostly sound of it cripples me.
So, I grasp on to the seconds I have left, barely hanging on as the paramedics arrive, scoop my lifeless body from off the concrete, and carry me to the infirmary, even though my pulse is slowly dying along with the rest of me.
“We’re going to need a chopper,” someone shouts.
“Ten minutes out!” someone else screams.
“Hang on, Dover. Just hang on. Don’t you dare fucking die on me,” someone pleads, there hands violently slamming against my chest as they start compressions.
Too bad Death is already waiting for me with a scythe in his hand, waiting to steal my last breath as it exits my body.