Squeak

Connections

Erik

Eight Months Later

I scratched another day off my calendar as my cellmate tossed and turned on his mattress. He'd wake up panting and sweating as if someone had chased him all night. It didn't happen often, but it was enough to get on my nerves and make me suggest he speak to a therapist.

Thank God he's being released tomorrow.

"Wake up, Adrian," I demanded, throwing his shower flip-flop at him. Adrian gasped and jolted awake. His hands shakily smoothed his shoulder-length blonde hair back. "You really need to get that shit checked. I don't know who diddled you as a kid, but you need to get that taken care of. After tomorrow, I won't be there to wake you from your nightmares."

"I wasn't "diddled" as a child," Adrian scoffed.

"You were something."

He climbed down from the top of the bunk and stood beside me. "How many more days do you have left?"

"Too many," I whispered. "You're out tomorrow. What's the first thing you're going to do?"

"Be reformed, of course," Adrian replied with a sardonic grin. I inhaled the smoke of my pre-breakfast cigarette to keep myself from laughing. Adrian was put away for armed robbery, assault with a deadly weapon, and evading arrest.

Statistically, he'll be released, do the same shit, and find himself right back here again. It's not his fault. Despite what they try to sell you, prison was never meant to reform offenders. It's modern-day slavery where you're assigned a number, told when to get up and go to sleep, and worked for pennies on a dollar while the fat cats on top tell you it's for your benefit and the betterment of the community. But the fact of the matter is that for most, living on the outside as a "free man" is more challenging than being locked up. Your job opportunities are dismal; you can't possess a gun, you can't vote, and you're fucked if you need housing. So, what are these "free men" going to do?

"You meant to say be recidivistic. I guess I'll be seeing your ugly face soon enough."

"I'm serious, Erik. I have big plans, and I don't plan on fucking them up."

I acknowledged him with a slight head tilt and returned to my cigarette. I used our silence to think about Jezebel—something I did nearly 24/7. I fucking missed that psycho bitch.

Fuck. I even miss when we're spooning, and she farts on me in her sleep.

I never told her this because, knowing her, she'd start blubbering and snotting about how embarrassed she was, and I didn't have the patience.

Jezebel Shae King annoyed the ever-loving fuck out of me. Still, she was also the only person I could stomach for prolonged periods of time. For every annoyance, I found her to be equally endearing. Theoretically, they canceled each other out.

What I would give to hear her say, "Okay, King" again.

I used to complain when I felt she was smothering me and wouldn't give me my space, but I'd give my left nut to have her interrupt me while I was in the middle of a match with a frivolous question, like how I'd feel if she painted Sophia's toenails pink. It was true what they said: you never know what you have until it's gone.

Jezebel brought more to my life than I gave her credit for. The affection alone was enough. I was so used to seeing my parents exchange blows that I was startled the first time Jezebel cuddled with me. She forced my head onto her chest, scratched my scalp, and played with my hair until I fell asleep. I felt...safe. I felt I could let my guard down and didn't have to be in survival mode because Jezebel would be looking out for me.