Fuck their silver platters and their handouts. Maria and I busted our asses in school because our father didn’t want us ending up at that damn factory. We did it to make him proud, to make ourselves proud, not for a fucking handout.
The thing about handouts, freebies, breaks, they come at a cost.
I look forward, straight ahead, not in the past, and as I do, two people walking toward me cross the street.
It’s not lost on me that before my life detonated, blew all to hell, a pin pulled by me, I was clean cut, wore a damn uniform every day, and people didn’t cross the street when they saw me. They used to smile, and I smiled back.
Now, I don’t give a damn if they smile at me or cross the fucking street. The minute I allow anyone in, they find out who I am and what I did, and they not only cross the street, they run in fear. Therefore, my hair goes uncut, I never shave to the skin, and I will never wear a fucking suit and tie again.
Every dream I had for my future died the same moment Maria took her last breath. We died together; the man I was supposed to be and my sister.
I walk into the gym and lock it behind me. Then I take the stairs to the place I sleep, and although not always peacefully, I don’t have to worry about someone trying to start shit with me while I try to sleep.
After throwing off my sweatshirt, I push off my sweats and flop down onto the mattress.
She thought I was older than her. I thought she was my age. Floored me when she announced she is thirty-one. Doesn’t matter. Legs will be running as far away as she can as soon as she finds out who I am. Any smart woman would. I just hope she takes my advice and stops putting herself in messed up situations. When she gets the memo that I’m a bad guy, maybe she will be a little more apt to check out a guy first.
***
All the next day, while training the guys, I look at the door, waiting, expecting her to come in. Am I wishing she would, or worried she will?
Well, it doesn’t matter much. I won’t see her again, not after she finds out who I am. She has my full name. If she’s like every other person in today’s modern world, a simple search will tell her more than she ever bargained for when she picked me as her muse.
When it’s slow, I leave the guys to it and walk up to my place to sit and rest my body for half an hour or so. I hold the journal in my hands, knowing damn well I shouldn’t read it. I don’t. I do what I should and rest for a while.
When my alarm goes off on my phone, I get up and throw the damn thing on the table, walk to the bathroom to take a piss, and brush my teeth. The only good thing I got out of being locked up were these teeth being perfect, so I take care of them.
When I walk back out, I again look at the book, and then I keep on walking out the door and back to work.
The next morning, I set a nice even pace as I begin my jog. It never stays even. The rage inside of me drives me to run faster, push myself harder. Pounding the pavement under me, I relentlessly go on and on without looking back.
For five years, I dreamt of the day I would walk out of that hell hole and go to a baseball game with my old man. I dreamt that we would watch TV, old westerns like he used to enjoy. I fucking dreamt of working at that factory with him because no one in their right mind was going to hire a kid like me. I dreamt of going to the cemetery and telling Maria I was sorry. So fucking sorry I couldn’t save her.
Next to her is my mother’s stone. I would tell her that I am sorry that I killed her during childbirth. Because I know damn well that Maria would have been alive today if I hadn’t killed our mother.
After the news of my father’s death, knowing that he died alone, knowing that Shaw found him after two days, I dreamt of nothing. I hated myself for not being there when he had a heart attack. Had I been, I could have gotten him help.
For the next two years of my sentence, I sat and stared at the fucking walls of my cell, or spent time at the prison gym, where I tried to exhaust myself enough to turn off my mind. It never worked.