Good Company

Chapter 16

~August 8th 1974~ 

Dearest Roger,

You would be perplexed by this place. There's at least 150 men on my cell block, and I share a cell with two guys, Matthew and Ben. Matthew is in for six months for multiple burglaries and Ben sells drugs. Not to teenagers, thank god, but still. They are my only 'friends', if you can even call it that. We sit together in the cafetaria and talk about our lives outside prison, which is usually depressing.

I get little allowance, but I've been saving up to buy a pair of shower slippers. They kind of feel like clogs, so it reminds me of better times.
The other day, two guys got into a fight over a meatball, and they ended up with black eyes and one even had a broken nose. It's sickening to see civilized people attack each other like that, over a simple piece of meat, of all things. That reminds me, there are no vegetarian food options. I usually eat around the meat, but the larger thing I pass over to either Matthew or Ben or someone else. This has gotten me a good reputation, but it makes me look weak. I'm scared they might find a prey in me because I, unlike most others, try to be nice to the others. When I approach someone, they let me be, but others might get a blow in the face. I don't know if that's a good thing or not... 

A few times a week, we all have to choose an activity that stimulates our intellect. There's classes that teach varying languages, sportsteams, cooking classes, dancing classes, and so on and so forth. I consistently pick the music class. The feeling of being able to create something that's solely mine is amazing. I might buy a guitar when I get out, it's grown on me already. Plucking the strings feels familiar, like I was meant to play music. I've written songs too, mostly about you. I can hardly sleep without your touch, your embrace, but I try, although it's hard. Writing songs has improved my sleeping schedule, for I can write down my feelings about you and go to sleep with an empty head. I'll play them to you when I'm home again, every single one. Here's a sample for a new song I'm writing:

Don't you hear my call
Though you're many years away
Don't you hear me calling you
Write your letters in the sand
For the day I take your hand
In the land that your grandchildren knew

I don't know yet how I can use it in a song, but it felt right. I'm worried that the world's changed, no longer the same as it was a month ago. I'm worried that I won't be the same... 

Have you had any contact with Freddie and John? I've been so scared. That fucker is up to something, but I haven't figured it out. Why would he want them now, why not earlier? If he wanted me out of the picture, he could have just filed a restraining order, knowing his manipulative skills he would have gotten one in no time. Why jail? That's what I'm most curious about: why. 

Anyways, it's John's birthday soon, and not soon after it's Freddie's. I'll send them both a birthday card, wishing Paul won't check their mail, but I long to be there, their first birthdays since the adoption, and he's taken it from me. He's taken everything from me. My job, my home, my children and you, Roger. I feel myself falling apart every day. Without you, I can feel myself falling back to the place I was a year ago. My thoughts have grown darker, a few minor voices have come back. I just hope I am strong enough to resist Brizilla's call. He's the hardest to ignore, and the most hurtful. If I can't, these may be the last sane words I'll write down in two years. It's difficult, Rog. I mustn't give in, I can't, but I don't think I can hold back much longer. It drains my energy, my soul. Perhaps it's better if I give in... 

I love you with all my heart, Roger, you are the love of my life. You take my breath away, every time I think of you. You are the reason I haven't given up yet. I long to see your face, drown in your blue eyes, get lost in your blond hair, feel the earth move when I kiss your rosy lips. How I wish we could be married sooner, I crave you, all of you. I love you. I can't stretch this enough, because it's true, I love you. You are my rock. 

Love from Brian 

Roger's tears stained the paper as he pressed the letter onto his chest. 'I love you more, Brian. Please come home...'