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Chapter Twenty-One

Goodbyes are like a roulette wheel, never know where their gonna land

First your spinning then you’re standing still, left holding a losing hand

But one day you’re gonna find someone, and right away you’ll know it’s true

That all of your seeking’s done, its just a part of the passing through

And right there in that moment, you’ll finally understand

I was better as a memory than as your man

Sully

I have been prisoner 4875123SS for two weeks now. I don’t have a list of complaints like I thought it would. This place is mellow and a little better than jail. I am rarely cuffed and room with four men per cell. On my first day, I was met with two men dressed in khakis, black boots and white t-shirts who asked to see my paperwork.

I knew what they wanted. I had to prove I wasn’t they most hated criminal of all prison systems. Child predators, rapists, and snitches are targets. Even in a mellow minimum-security prison like Olympic is.

Within a day, I was respected. I could have told you it would go that way. The world may never admit it, but who I killed was something damn near any father would do. It also turned out my case was widely televised, and the inmates here knew damn well who I was.

Cove, one of my four cellies, was trying to get me work by making me some shitty tattoo machine, but I refused and did my best to stay to myself. After he made sure his point was made by breaking my jaw, I accepted the second time he asked.

It was then I knew how the hierarchy in prison went. I agreed to tattoo, but on the condition he ever sucker punched me again I would make him pay. I hate being forced to do anything, but here, it is a requirement to do as told. Inmates run the system, the guards babysit.

“Inmate 4875123, Sullivan, you have a visitor,” One of the guards yelled into the main room.

“Who is it?” I ask knowing if it’s Mya I need to refuse. I want nothing more than to see her perfection, but she deserves a man who can touch her, fuck her… fuck, seeing her and not being allowed to touch her is what torture sounds like.

“Amiyah Dorian,” He says, his eyes searching for the answer I choke on.

“I refuse,” I say, and turn my attention back to the drawing I am working on. It is her, all of them are. I draw other things when I need to tattoo, but in my free time I draw her, us… it is her face I see.

“You sure?” He asks me, and I don’t know why he gives a fuck. He and I are enemies as far as the system is concerned.

I nod, saying nothing as I trace her face again.

“You got two years at the most. You really want to destroy the one thing you have going for you?” He says it as matter of fact, like he knows…. Maybe he does. Mya, like everyone, else was all over the news on my case.

“She has more going for her than I ever did. She needs to remember that,” I don’t look at him as I speak the truth, whether I like it or not.

“Can I say something off the record?”

I look at him then, shocked any guard would want to talk off the record. I also know to be careful because the guards can be just as vengeful as the inmates. “Sure.”

I return to my drawing like I don’t care what he has to say.

“I don’t think you are a killer or a vigilante. I read the case like everyone else and I have three daughters myself. I took an oath and I still would do the same. I think if you know people are on your side then maybe, just maybe, you won’t fuck up too much.”

“Duly noted. The answer is still no,” I don’t even look up as he accepts it and leaves. I want to see her, fuck yes, I do. I refuse because I must leave her. She needs to follow her dreams and go off with some guy who will give her babies and a life I never will.

I started getting mail last week and I don’t read her letters either, though I keep them when they come. I was in the jail for a few weeks before solitary here while everything was processed. She wrote me a ton in that time too and I didn’t get the letters until I was placed in the unit.

What would I tell her? The food is shitty, the people are dirty, and the fucking place is loud twenty-four-seven? It would be apologies and complaints. I won’t write her letters confessing my undying love and loyalty. I will always love her yes, but she can’t know that.

Weeks go by with the same, until it is a month, then two. My parole date came and went with me refusing to admit guilt for Tenpenner. I sit here in this prison, working for four dollars and eighteen cents, picking grapes for a vineyard. I read or draw at night, and do my best to keep to myself.

I tattoo only what I want and after the first few guys wanted gang shit or swastikas, I made it clear I only tattoo my designs, or I am willing to fight. I haven’t been sucker punched again and after a few heated moments, they started to see I meant business.

I stare at the letters that pile up. All from Mya, meant to destroy me if I start from the first one. I need to tell her to stop and move on. I reach for the last few she has sent. I took a visit from Noah and Jen a few weeks back and made it clear I want to be left alone until I am free. I had hoped they got that point across to Mya. I see the pink envelopes and perfect penmanship, proof she doesn’t give a shit about my wishes.

There’s only one-way people learn, and it is the hard way. What I am about to do is just one more in my long list of regrets… I have nothing left to give her and once she realizes that, she will thank me.