Page 6 of Fragments
And I’ve been here long enough to understand the facts. I took hold of reality way back when. In all honesty, it didn’t take me that long to swallow this jagged pill. After all, I’m a realist. I know there are certain things that won’t change, and I’ve made my peace with it.Unlike some other people I know.
I’ve been locked up, on an island in the middle of the ocean, for nearly five years now.
And I won’teverbe getting out.
So what happens now?you might be asking.
It’s all about finding some semblance of life here. Living each day as best I can, not thinking about the future, and sure as shit not dwelling on the past. It’s all pointless, anyway.
I’m here, forever.
So these fuckers need to let me sleep.
I do eventually get a few hours of decent shuteye, but it’s nowhere near as satisfying as I usually find it to be. When the lights come on in the row, I grumble, stuffing my face into the bed. There’s no rhyme or reason to the schedule of events in Alabaster Pen, but being here for as long as I have, you start to gain a sort ofintuitionfor what’s coming. This morning feels like a breakfast, then immediately to the showers kind of day.
Drifting in and out of consciousness, I feel a dream lingering on the edges of my mind, but I can’t really remember what it was. The noises up the row grow louder once more as inmates wake up and begin their own daily routines. Mornings tend to be quieter than nights. Still, there are things you’ll always hear… Shouting is a staple. Cursing, screaming, fucking, and fighting.
I barely notice it anymore. Unless it’s interrupting my sleep.Or coming from a certain cell up the row…
Sitting up slowly, I rub my eyes, waking myself up fully. I hop down from my bunk, grabbing my toothbrush and toothpaste to begin myregimen,if you will. Take a piss, brush my teeth, wash my face. I still have more than half my tube of toothpaste left.That’s good.I’m not looking forward to trying to get more… or the knowledge of what has to happen in order for me to get it.
Shaking it off, I go to my bunk, tucking my things back under my mattress and grabbing a fresh pair of boxers and socks. I change into them, beneath my standard dull gray jumpsuit, and my pair of Adidas I’ve had for years.
Folding up my dirty clothes, I place them on the bottom bunk. It reminds me of my last cellmate… And the fact that he’s been MIA for months now. I swallow hard, remembering the day Henry Landon was ripped out of here, kicking and screaming…
Memories fade to the back of my mind at the familiar footsteps and chatter associated with Alabaster Pen’s resident female. Joy Jameson peers in through the bars, and I offer her a cheeky grin.
Her brows furrow as she pushes open the door to my cell. “You’re already up?”
“Just getting a head-start on this beautiful day,” I mumble sarcastically, though I’m grinning as she chuckles, stepping up to me with cuffs in hand.
Fastening them loosely, she gives me a little shove toward the door. “Oh, Luthy. Why can’t all the dumpster fires in this dungeon be like you?”
I laugh. Her raspy voice is laced with humor, but of course there’s truth and fondness in there. Call it one of the benefits, if there really are any, of having been here for so long. I have a good relationship with most of the guards, and believe it or not, it’s something I’ve earnedwithoutgetting on my knees. But Joy is definitely my favorite. She’s cool, and she respects the fact that I’m not here to cause rifts or get into trouble.
Sure, I freaked out a little when I first arrived, all those years ago. You’d have to be a total psycho not to…
Being tossed into a concrete tomb under the guise of rotting away for the rest of my life sent me into a spiral of epically freaked-out proportions. But I got over it quickly enough when I realized there was no point. Spazzing wouldn’t change the reality of my situation.
And so, ever since, I’ve just beenexistinghere. Doing my best to get by while still trying my hardest to smile. It’s the one thing they can’t take from me.
The last remaining piece ofLexington Deon.
Trudging up the row, Joy stops us to grab Kang and O’Malley. Once they’re out in the hall with us, her hand stays planted on her Glock. Because whileI’ma truly Zen motherfucker in this place, and Joy and Kang have their own little thing going on, Kieran O’Malley is still a wild card.
He’s coming up on his one-year anniversary, and he’s still just as crazy as he was the day he got here. I like him enough, but I’m not a huge fan of the unpredictable. I get enough of that from the cell on the other end of the row.
Glancing at Kang and O’Malley, I nod to them, and they nod back. O’Malley looks tired, as usual. He suffers from night terrors, when he’s not actively freaking out, which makes him a pretty obnoxious cellmate to Kang, who’s probably the quietest of our little group of prison pals. But still, Kang likes O’Malley. They get along, when they’re not beating the shit out of each other.
It’s a bizarre friendship.
“I owe you a bitch-smack,” I grumble to O’Malley while Joy brings us farther up the row.
He gives me a look, then rolls his eyes. “Yer a real baby about yer sleep, brother.”
“You know the rules, Shamrockstar.” Kang grins, elbowing him.
I can’t help but chuckle at the nickname. Velle started calling O’Malley that a few months back, and we all get a kick out of it. O’Malley hates it, which makes it even more fun.
