by Alexis Angel
"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 de
sk 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 supposed 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.
To help get my mind off of all this, I'm determined to not give up on Lucien's case. I spend my free moments researching the circumstances surrounding his conviction, even now. I'm searching Google, entering in every possible combination of search terms and then I see a link to a document that looks interesting. I click it and read through the material. Half way through, I have my hand over my mouth in shock. I can't believe what I'm reading. A set of bloody boot prints were found at the scene of the crime—prints that did not match anything Lucien owned, and they were ultimately dismissed Why did this get thrown out at trial? Immediately, I dial an attorney who I've known for a while, J. Edgar. He picks up on the second ring and we chat.
"I really think we have enough for a retrial," I tell him. "This man is innocent."
"I'd need to take a closer look," he says, after a long pause. "But you may be right. My afternoon appointment canceled and I have some free time. Can you stop by?"
"Of course! Thank you, I appreciate it! I'll be right over."
I hang up and close my laptop, and then search for my shoes, jacket, and purse. I'm feeling better than I have all week. If J. Edgar is willing to review this case, then that gives me hope. Now if I can just find my keys… I look on my desk, where I thought I left them, but I don't see anything. Maybe I left them in the kitchen. With my purse on one shoulder, I quickly walk into the kitchen and look at the counter—there they are. I grab them and turn around to leave, and then I feel it—an arm is hooked around my neck.
The suddenness of it all leaves me frozen and terrified. I think for a moment and then try to break free but the man squeezes harder and I'm forced to stay still. Was I being watched? How did he get into my house? Panic starts to flood my entire body and my heart is thumping in my chest. I'm feeling dizzy with adrenaline.
"Don't move or I'll kill you!" he growls, and his voice sounds muffled, as if something is covering his face.
"Wh-who are you? What do you want?"
And then I know he—whoever this man is—isn't here to answer questions because in that instance it feels as if someone has taken a baseball bat to the back of my head and there's an explosion inside of my brain.
My legs buckle and everything is black.
Lucien
The chicken tastes like shit. The mashed potatoes taste even worse.
But who am I kidding? The entire prison is a piece of shit place. It’s peeling, crumbling, dirty, dank, infested, and full of fucking misery.
I can’t believe I used to be happy in this dump.
But that’s when she was here.
I know what you’re thinking. You probably hate my fucking guts. More than when you first met me.
But I had to do it. You saw what Grinder said. You saw what they did to me.
I’ve been around places like this a lot in my
fucking life. I know when shit’s serious and when it’s just people talking. And there's no way they were just talking with empty fucking threats there.
I couldn’t take the fucking chance. Not when I love her. Not when she’s carrying my baby.
So, I do the only thing that I can do in this situation. I close my eyes and scoop mashed potatoes into my mouth.
It tastes like fucking garbage.
“If you’re not going to eat your food, I’ll have some,” a voice says and I sigh because I would recognize that fucking voice anywhere. The guy who started all this.
“What the fuck do you want, Spider?” I ask not even bothering to open my eyes. “She’s gone, ain’t nothing I can do for you no more.”
There’s a long pause on the other side of the table and then Spider sighs.
“See, I already knew that, amigo,” he says in his nasally voice and if my eyes were open and looking at him, I’d be fucking rolling them at him right now. “That’s kind of why I’m here actually. You snitched to the Warden so she’d be safe. I understand that. The problem is she’s not.”
Now my eyes are open and I’m looking straight at the motherfucker. If something’s happened to Kerri….
I clutch my tray, ready to use it as a weapon in case I need to. Spider sees this and backs away in his seat a little bit.
“Now, hear me out before you do anything crazy, man,” Spider says hurriedly with nervous fear coating his words. “You don’t want to do anything drastic.”
It seriously takes all my mental strength to keep from flinging the food off the tray and grabbing Spider by the shirt with one hand while I use the tray as a blade, swiping at his neck. I could kill that rascally motherfucker right now if I needed to.
But what would happen to Kerri?
Is he even telling the truth about her being in danger? Or is this just another big laugh that he’s having?
