Stories From The 6 Train

by Alexis Angel

  "Do the rest of you have a fucking death wish or what?" I spit, breathing heavy but my entire body on fire—my muscles tense and ready to spring like a lion getting ready to bring down a herd of weaker animals—I'm egging them on and daring them to step forward. My fists are still clenched. My nostrils are flared in anticipation. One guy gets close and I leap forward, boxing the shit out of him—throwing every combo I know, moves I haven't used since my days hustling on the streets and it's obvious he's had enough because he's slumped against the wall and struggling to get away. I watch as he spits blood and a tooth tumbles to the floor. The man looks stunned, like he can't believe what's happened, and I begin to think that maybe I've got this—that I can fucking take on the world.

  And just as I think the whole fucking group has had enough, the remaining two lunge at me, one from each side. I'm landing a few solid punches, knocking one guy in the eye, but it's not enough. These guys are nearly seven feet tall and look as if they belong to some sort of fucked up circus show, and I feel a fist crash into my temple and I'm dazed. I'm not seeing stars but pretty damn close.

  "Take that, bitch!" one of the tanks growls, and I see his lip turn up in a curl that exposes a series of missing teeth. I feel myself going down—sinking with the weight of the blows, and the heaviness of being overpowered. The only thing left for me to do is to protect my face. My entire body crashes to the hard floor, blood smears creating streaks like warning signs everywhere I look. Instinctively, I raise my arms and curl them around my face as a shield. I'm in a ball now—practically in the fucking fetal position, and I see and feel their feet like hammers, whacking my body. Blow after blow—the violence of it all seems to excite them. Thwack, I hear what sounds like a rib breaking. I try to edge my body away, but it doesn't work. They continue to kick me, and when one shoe lands in the middle of my gut with so much force that I can't breath, my vision goes dark. I can't see anything now, but I can still hear and one man says, "We know you're fucking Kerri." He says it like he's spitting venom. I can't speak; I can't breath. I try to tilt my head and say no, that they've got it all wrong, that she's got nothing to do with any of this, but nothing comes out.

  I stay conscience long enough to hear the words that make my blood run cold, "Next time, she's going to die."

  And with that, my world fades to black.

  Kerri

  The pregnancy has caused me to get a second wind in exploring Lucien’s incarceration.

  Actually, I've spent the last few days obsessing over Lucien’s case. Pouring over newspaper reports and court transcripts, and Googling every possible search term I can think of to dig up even obscure details. I honestly can't believe what I've been reading. The findings are shocking. There are a number of discrepancies that even to an untrained eye like mine stand out as glaringly obvious.

  Lucien is sitting next to me. I can't wait to tell him everything I've learned in the last 24 hours. Does he even realize what a shitty job his lawyer did representing him?

  I set everything up so that we could meet in the infirmary today, and now here he is. But I'm nervous because I know there's another reason why I wanted to meet with him today, and I don't know how he's going to handle it. But I have to say it. Holding it in is driving me crazy and clouding my thoughts.

  When I told him I had something to share with him, I figured he'd be in a better mood, but he's acting sullen and withdrawn, as if he's preoccupied. But I know this could be the break he needs—all of these discrepancies—and honestly this is a break I need too. Maybe he'll snap out of whatever mood he's in when I tell him what I've found.

  I touch his hand with mine. They are big and calloused—working-man hands—and sit in stark contrast to my own. He may feel that there's no hope, but I'm not buying that. I think he's wrong. Not wanting to waste anymore time, I start to tell him about what I've dug up.

  "I've been researching your case and I've found some factors that haven't—"

  He cuts me off. "You've what? Are you fucking serious?" The look on his face is pure anger.

  "What do you mean?" I ask, taken aback. That wasn't the response I was expecting.

  "Stop. Just stop, okay? You have no business digging through my case. I've been convicted, remember? That means a judge and jury have found me guilty. It's the beginning and the end of my story."

  "Don't say that. Your story is just beginning," I contest, trying to keep him optimistic. He shakes his head. "Do you even hear yourself? You shouldn't be sticking your nose where it doesn't belong."

  I can't believe what he's saying. "Sticking my nose where it doesn't belong? Oh I see. Sure, you can stick your dick in me, but the minute I want to help… Lucien, look at me. What are you even talking about?"

  "What don't you understand exactly?" he asks. "You need me to spell it all out for you? I thought you were smarter than that."

  "I don't understand any of it. Why are you so mad? I thought you'd be happy about the info I dug up. This info could get you out here. I thought that's what you wanted."

  "Looks like you don't know me at all," he says with such finality that I have a sinking feeling in my stomach.

  "I refuse to believe that. I'm trying to help you—us. We have something between us, and excuse me if I don't want to see you rot in here. You don't deserve to be doing time for a crime you didn't commit!"

  He refuses to look at me, and instead is slumped forward, his eyes focusing on the linoleum floor. "I want to end this—us," he says at just above a whisper. "You should quit this job, and find something new."

  What? It feels as if I've been punched in the gut. I can hardly breath. How could he be saying these things? How could he do this to me? And more importantly, how could I be such a fool to fall for any of it. My pain is turning to anger. I can hear my friend Brie's words ringing in my head: This man is serving a life sentence for murder and you're willing to overlook that just because he's hot?

  "Why are you doing this?" I ask. I feel the disbelief in my eyes as I look at him.

  "Look, fucking you was fun, but let's be honest—this isn't real. None of it is." His voice takes a mocking tone and hearing these words pour of out of his mouth makes me want to slap him. It feels like the ultimate betrayal and I hear something in the deep caverns of my body break. I'm fighting the urge to hurt him. I don't want to stoop to that level and I'm holding back hot tears that are threatening to spill down my face. They're sloshing behind my eyelids like water in a too-full cup, and I am trying to keep still because I know that any movement at this point will cause them to overflow. And I'll be damned if I allow myself to shed a tear in front of him.

  "I'm happy here—despite you coming in here today and talking to me like I'm a piece of shit stuck to the bottom of your shoe—I'm doing well. The inmates trust me and I'll be up for a pay increase soon. I'm not going to throw this job away because of you—just because you say so. I thought I knew you. But looking at you right now, I guess I don't, and maybe I never did."

  With that, Lucien raises his head, no longer slumped, and looks me in the eyes. For the first time, I see that he has fresh bruises on his face. His bottom lip is split open on one side, and one of his eyes is swollen. There's a purple lump on his left cheekbone that looks pretty bad and I wonder who did this to him.

  "Oh my god—what happened to you?" I ask. I can't believe I didn't notice until this moment. I reach out to touch his cheek with my fingers and he grabs my arm sharply.

  "Don't touch me."

  "Lucien, I—"

  "It's nothing."

  "Let me fix you. I can grab an ice pack and make a compress and—"

  "Don't you see? You can't fucking fix me! This is what's real. This prison—these four concrete walls—the fact that you and I will never have a future. All of it."

  "I—I need to tell you something," I begin to say. I feel like it's now or never. I need to get something off my chest. "I'm—"

  But before I can finish my sentence, with one hard kick, Lucien pushes his chair back
and the four metal legs make a shrill scratching sound. When he stands up, he pushes the chair back against the table, and I feel the vibration of it in my arms. It's clear to me that he's over this conversation and isn't willing to hear any more. I'm still trying to talk as I watch him turn around.

  "… I'm pregnant," I whisper, the words dying on my lips. He doesn't see or hear me because he is already out the door and walking down the hallway.

  Lucien

  Can you imagine anything more awkward than getting examined by the woman you just told off? I didn't think so. And of course here we are—Kerri's checking on my recent injuries—touching the areas that need to be touched and making notes on her clipboard. I can tell she's pissed off and hurt. She's not making eye contact and barely saying a word. She's being diligent in her exam but doing just enough to get her job done. I don't blame her. But what she doesn't know is that it's eating me up inside. This shit is like acid in my guts. I'm being eaten alive. I didn't want to end things but I had no choice.

  What else am I supposed to do? It's for her own good—all of it. Either I do this and she lives, or I choose the alternative and she's in danger. "Does this hurt?" she asks, and I shake my head and tell her it's not bad, but actually, on a scale from one to 10, it's a fucking eight. I just want to be done here. Going through these fucking motions with her is worse than any of these physical injuries. I guess even the cheesiest love songs—like the ones that pop Country music artists sing about dead dogs and broken down pickups—are right. Love fucking hurts, and yeah, I used the L word. I did love her—I still do, and that's why I'm ending this shit. I want her to walk away from all of this alive. I won't let Grinder or any of those shitheads touch her. That much I've promised myself.

  "Anything else?" I ask, eager to get the fuck out of here.

  "You tell me."

  I can feel the tension in her tone. And it's not just the way she says it but also the way her eyes are penetrating mine and threatening to peel me back, layer by layer. She lays those words on me and all of a sudden the air feels thick as peanut butter. It's like I can slice the air in this fucking room with a knife.

  "I can't do this," I say, not really meaning it. At least, not 100%, but I hope I sound convincing.

  "Convenient. You're such a coward. I don't know why I thought you could ever change."

  I just look at her. I don't know what to say because all of the things that want to tumble out of my mouth like a sack of loose marbles—all of those words that spell the fucking truth—I can't say. So instead, I'm looking at her like a fucking idiot and she gives me this look with her eyes that says, well, what now asshole? "I'm sorry, I guess I deserve this place," is all I can say. I know it's lame but it's the best I've got.

  "This is not the man I fell in love with."

  And like a real ass I just shrug my shoulders. I figure the more I can piss her off, the better it'll be on her. Maybe she'll hate me enough to finally leave. The quicker she realizes this is over, the better. She can move on with her life and I can go on with worrying about covering my own ass in this shitty place.

  "I don't know what you're up to, and I almost hate to admit this, but I'm not some switch that can be turned off and on. Maybe you are, but that's not me. I still think you have a chance of getting out of this place. We can make a life together."

  No sooner do these words leave her mouth that I see the pain in her face. Tears are forming at the corners of her eyes and it takes everything in me to not reach out to her—to touch her—to hold her, and run my fingers through her hair. But instead of doing that I double down and tell her she's wrong.

  She takes a step back and trips on the strap of her purse slightly, and kicks it out of her way. She turns her back to me; I can tell she's crying and wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her shirt. And as her back is turned, I look down at the floor and my gaze lands on her purse. From where I'm sitting, I can look straight into it and at first, I'm not sure if what I'm seeing is what I think it is. I strain and lean in closer, moving quickly before she turns back around and catches me. Then I see it again—sitting right there on top of everything—and this time I know exactly what I'm looking at.

  My suspicions are correct. The black and white square piece of paper that I'm looking at—the one with a grainy image that resembles the shape of an oversized gummy bear—it's an ultrasound photo. There's no doubt about it, and with this realization my heart catches in my throat and my stomach just about crashes to the floor. My head is like a car racing around a track a hundred miles an hour, and just when I think I'm going to get dizzy from it all and maybe pass out right here and crash on the linoleum—right in front of Kerri—it hits me.

  I now know what I need to do.

  Kerri

  "You probably know why I've summoned you both in here," the Warden says, tapping his pen against his desk and looking at Lucien and I. He raises it for a moment, using it to scratch at the stubble on his pudgy face. I feel like I'm suddenly under a microscope.

  "No, I don't," I respond, shaking my head. There's no way I'm falling for that. That's the oldest trick in the book—getting coerced into admitting something that hasn't even been defined. I look over at Lucien. He's sitting to my right and won't lift his gaze from the floor. He's refusing to look at the Warden, or me, and I find it suspicious. There are red flags all over this meeting and I'm struggling with the internal dread that's starting to blanket my insides.

  "I don't have time for games, Warden. If you'll excuse me, I have a lot of appointments today and I'd like to get back to work."

  "I'm afraid that's not possible," the Warden says, this time pointing his square-tipped finger in my direction. It feels like a hostile gesture. "We are terminating your employment."

  "I don't understand," I say, even though the picture is starting to form in my mind. "Lucien, what's he talking about?" I turn to Lucien—my eyes pleading with him—begging him to tell me that this is all a dream—that he isn't a part of this conspiracy. Except that's not what happens at all. Instead, he lifts his head and says, "It's for the best." His eyes are vacant and devoid of emotion.

  "What's that suppose to mean?" I ask.

  The Warden cuts us off. "Kerri, I have head management on the phone—it's on speaker." As he says this, I look at the black headset on his desk. He continues, "We have reason to believe that you've been having sexual relations with this inmate, Lucien Stone. That is in direct violation of this facility's code of ethics and conduct, and we have no choice but to remove you from the premises and terminate your employment."

  "You have no proof—you can't do this—"

  "Actually, we can. Mr. Stone has told us everything."

  Hearing this, I look at Lucien. When he refuses to make eye contact with me, I know it's true. I haven't felt this level of betrayal since the afternoon I found Jonathan fucking another woman in our bed. Everything I've worked for over these last six months—my independence, career, stability—suddenly feels like it's slipping through my fingers. What am I supposed to do? I'm now jobless and pregnant with this man's baby—a man who has betrayed me and is serving a life sentence behind bars. Would things be different if he knew I was pregnant? If I were able to tell him, would we be sitting here? I'm not sure if it can get much worse at this point, and honestly, I'm scared shitless. Why do I continually put myself in bad situations?

  Two security guards enter the Warden's office, and they approach me, one on each side. "We're here to escort you out, Ms. Curtis."

  I'm numb and trying to hold in hot tears that are threatening to spill down my face. Keep it together, I tell myself. You're stronger than this. Remember that.

  I stand up. I suddenly don't want to be in this place a minute longer. I have the urge to get out of this office—this building.

  Security escorts me out through Cell-Block D. Inmates are whistling and heckling me as I leave. "Was his dick worth it?" one inmate yells. "You could've had mine for free. I wouldn't have ratted you out." I can hear him laughing
but I don't respond. I keep my gaze straight ahead and I can feel my cheeks grow flush. I can't get out of here fast enough.

  It isn't until I reach my car, lock the doors, and strap the seatbelt across my chest that I lose it—and I mean 'release-the-flood-gates' lose it. I'm gripping the steering wheel and I'm crying in heavy sobs. I no longer care if anyone can see me. My eyes are growing red and swollen and my pain starts to morph into anger, and I can't help but to hit the steering wheel with the palm of my hand, and then I hit the seat next to me. How could he? I wonder. And then it hits me. This isn't Lucien. He wouldn't just turn me in to get me fired. He's far from perfect—and he's certainly no saint, but he isn't evil and vindictive. There must be something I'm not seeing—a hidden piece to this puzzle.

  Just then I hear my phone buzz with an incoming text message. I see it's from Brie. I open it and can see that it's a GIF from the movie, "Thelma and Louise." It's taken from the moment they are about to drive off a cliff and they are holding hands in the front seat of their convertible. Underneath, her message reads, "Ride or die, xoxo."

  Seeing this snaps me to reality and I smile for the first time all day. Thank God for friends.

  For the next week, my thoughts are bouncing from one corner of my mind to the next like a Ping-Pong ball at high speed. One minute, I'm crying and downing a pint of Ben & Jerry's, and the next minute, I'm determined to pull my life together. I'm trying to network for a new job—I won't make it otherwise. So I'm talking to anyone who might have a lead, and while some leads are warm, I can't help but think if anyone will want to employ a pregnant woman. I know they can't outright discriminate against my situation, but let's be honest—who wants to hire someone who will need to take a short leave in the immediate future? And beyond that—every little thing is making me sick. The smell of toothpaste, the smell of a cooked dinner, and even the smell of dish soap have me running for the toilet. I'm guessing morning sickness is starting to creep in, but honestly, I'm not even sure why they call it that because I'm sick all day.