"You're joking, right?" I ask, not waiting for an answer. "It's over."
And then I look back to the bed, and I see a woman looking for her bra. Her hands are fumbling through the sheets. She's trying to hold her beasts in her hands, but her bra is on the floor and when she finally sees it, she has to reach down and pick it up. Her breasts spill out and I am disgusted with how perfect they look. She refuses to make eye contact with me and her discomfort is palpable. Her hair has that "just fucked" look and she doesn't bother touching it. She's not the one I'm mad it. It's clear she's an unknowing victim.
"Get out!" I scream again. It's the only thing I can say. It feels as if the walls are crumbling around me—the home Jonathan and I built together, the rainy nights spent in front of the TV cuddling up to a movie, the laughs, all of the good memories—that is all replaced with what feels like a punch to my gut. Everything feels dead and the only way I know how to staunch the pain is to remove these people—to get them out of my sight for good.
They scramble for their clothes, and hop around the room on one leg, quickly trying to pull their bodies through jeans. They aren't moving fast enough and I can't stop screaming. I'm seeing and feeling red. My entire body is pulsing. "Get out! Get out! Get the fuck out!" The minutes seem like an eternity and they finally leave with their shoes tucked under their arms. The woman runs down the stairs, and Jonathan follows after her. He stops mid-way and looks back at me one last time before leaving the house for good. It's a pathetic look and I hate him for it.
As soon as I hear the front door close, I slump down against the bedroom wall and sob. It feels like my chest is cracking in half. Everything feels dark and broken. I vow to never trust another man so easily again—maybe ever. Maybe there's no such thing as a Mr. Right. Maybe it's all a lie.
All I know is that there's now a before and after. I'm no longer the person I was yesterday, or even a few minutes ago. I was once blind and trusting, but time has split me in two. I don't even know who I am anymore. I'm a new person now—the kind of person who has to reconcile the fact that the man who I thought was my best friend is actually part of a betrayal. It's sort of like being slapped and hugged at the same time.
I don't know who I am any longer, or where I'm going, but I'll be damned if I'm going to let myself sit here, shattered.
Lucien
"—6, 7, 8, 9," I say out loud nearly spitting into the dirt next to me. Fuck, this place is hot. It must be 90 degrees out here. My arms and chest strain under the heaviness of the cast iron weights clanking against a steel bar. My muscles are shot and quivering, but I keep going at a steady pace. I feel myself growing stronger, and if I'm honest, lifting weights gives me the same euphoria as fucking beautiful women. Besides, I can't let myself get soft in a place like this.
There aren't many weights in the exercise yard anymore. It ain't like the movies. The ones left are decades old and rusting, and you practically have to nut up on everyone around you just to use them. I guess some high and mighty prick judge somewhere thought it was risky to let ex-cons get "intimidating muscles," and before anyone could so much as bat an eyelash, the media had its panties all in a ruffle. Everyone was "crapping in their cornflakes" so to speak. Just like that. Boom. Everyone was afraid. And now here we are resorting to lifting library books and doing pull ups on our bunk beds. Lucky for me, this shithole still has a set of weights, and if it's one thing I refuse to do, it's to let myself rot here.
I rest the weights back on the stand and wipe a thin line of sweat dripping down my temple. I blink back the Southern California sun. I catch my breath and grip the bar again. "One more rep," I tell myself. I release the bar from the stand and exhale sharply. It feels impossibly heavy and my veins are pulsing in my biceps. If this bar slips—if my arms give out—I will be in serious trouble. For a moment I wonder if I should call it quits for the day, but I shake the thought. Get your shit together, I tell myself. I start my new reps and count each press, "1, 2, and—"
As I count, my mind drifts back to the moment that haunts me every fucking time I close my eyes at night, and every time I open them in the morning. That apartment. That woman. I can still hear her screaming. I can still see that look of fear in her wide blue eyes as she clutched her baby to her chest. "Do it!" Billy yelled at me. "What the fuck are you waiting for?"
I remember holding the gun in my hand. My fingers frozen against the steel. That baby's perfectly round head nuzzled into her mother's neck like a fuzzy peach. I couldn't do it. I mean, not just in a moral sense, although only a sick fuck could make a move like that, but my entire body resisted too. I completely shut down.
"You fucking coward," Billy snarled. He grabbed the gun and changed everything. BANG. BANG. There were two loud shots that ended two lives. I had never seen so much red. And then everything went quiet. I exhale sharply again, remembering the unsettling stillness of it all.
"3, 4, 5—" I continue to count my reps at a faster clip trying to dull the memory.
It was a revenge killing. Running drugs for the mob isn't pretty, and I've done a lot of shit things in my life, but killing a mother and a baby isn't one of them. Of course no one believes me. And why should they? Billy and the rest of 'em did a damn near perfect job of setting me up—my finger prints were all over the place, including the gun. When the judge slapped me with a life sentence, I swear that a fucking lump the size of a boulder lodged itself deep into my gut. I still have a hard time eating sometimes. I shake my head in disgust.
I notice a shadow above me blocking out the sun. A voice says, "It's time you let the real men have a turn."
A shirtless man looks down at me. His eyes dare me to react. He's young, maybe 26. He thinks he's invincible—they all do in this fucking place. A spider web is tattooed across his shaved, bald head and he spits into the dirt next to me. This guy must be new. People know better than to talk shit to me like that. I rest the weights back on the stand and get up off the bench. I stand inches from his face with my fists clenched and my tightened muscles swollen from the bench presses, defying the unsaid rules of personal space.
"Says who?" I challenge.
"Says me."
"Yeah, well, you can go fuck yourself."
The man's eyes flash hatred at me. He doesn't blink, but instead moves closer. "What the fuck did you just say?"
"You heard me."
"If I heard correctly, you've just signed your own death certificate," he taunts.
"Right or wrong. It doesn't fucking matter," I say. "The only thing that matters in here is winning."
I notice he is clutching a sock in his right hand. I wasn't born yesterday. I know what he's planning to do. There's a lock buried in that sock, and I'm not going to let him have the first swing. Without thinking or saying another word, I strike my right-elbow into the bridge of his nose and I hear it crack. It's like turning on a faucet because a river of blood runs down his face, across his lips, and under his chin.
"You fucking bastard," he growls. He is beyond pissed now. He swings the sock. Predictable. I bend my knees and dodge it, and when I come back up, I bring my fist into his temple. He stumbles and I notice a small crowd has formed a ring around us. Some men are laughing. Some cheering. Some are even making bets.
He charges me like a ram and slams his head into my collarbone. A sharp pain radiates down my chest but this spurs me on. He may be big, but he doesn't stand a chance. I put him in a headlock and we tumble into the dirt. He head butts me and I feel a hot cut form on my cheek. His neck is now in the crease of my arm and I squeeze harder. I'm on top of him and I put my knee into his jaw and pummel his ribs with my fist. Our brawling is kicking up a cloud of dirt and I blink rapidly, trying to keep it out of my eyes.
My anger is boiling over and I deliver blow after blow. Finally, I release him and he stumbles back. His face looks like a child has used it as a finger painting canvas. Red smears are everywhere.
Two guard rush in. They get between us. I see one guard has a can of mace on his hip. "There's a zero tolerance policy for violence boys," the first guard says. "This is going to land you both in solitary."