You Know What They Do To Guys Like Us In Prison

Two. (Nº 489's POV)

Note: This chapter is shorter than the previous one, sorry!
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As soon as he sat down, the officer loudly turned the handle of the metal door and barged in.

"Morning, good day, huh?" Frank said to the fat man. He's too innocent and cute. I rolled my eyes and kicked his leg, giving him a hint. He got it, and shut up.

"You kids got anything to declare?" The officer boomed.

"Just the usual, guns and bombs." I smirked. He just turned on his heel sassily and walked over to the next room, banging on the door and repeating the drill.

I got up and stretched my hand and fingers to close the door that stood ajar. As soona s that was done, I grabbed out my sketchbook and kept drawing. Today, I had atarted to draw Frank. I didn't draw every single cellmate I ever had because I had a lot, considering I have a life sentence and other dudes only have a week to a month.

For some reason, I felt Frank was going to stay longer than my past cellmates. So I drew him for the reason that when he eventually leaves, he'll have a memory of me. His creepy, serious cellmate from that time he screwed up badly and went to jail.

I started with his face, a breif outline, and then started shading. I drew, I bobbed my head up and down like my pencil was an instrument, my drawing a song and I was playing along to it.

"What are you drawing?" I heard his sweet, high pitched voice ask from behind me. I leaned back to look at my art, and looked at him to correct any mistakes. His jawline was perfectly defined, his nose bridge was soft and thin. I stared at his face, focusing on his eyes. They were a light green mostly, rimmed with a dark brown and speckled with hazel splodges. His pupil was sloppily outlined in a chocolate brown that faded into a bright olive green. The colors reminded me of a watercolour painting I had done in school.

I snapped out of it and he asked me again,

"Dude? You okay? You're just staring..." He had a confused expression on his cute little face.

"Yeah, sorry. Just was daydreaming of stuff. Sorry." God damnit.

"Dude, stop apologizing! You did nothing wrong."

"Sorry" I accidentally said again, cringing at how stupid I must look at the moment. He raised an eyebrow and got up to look at my drawing. I closed the book before he could see anything. He just sat back down awkwardly and pretended nothing had happened. He was cute.

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That night he barely slept. I understood him. The second you walk into a cell, you feel lonelier that you ever thought you could. And when you have to sleep, you feel empty, knowing your family is far away and not coming to see you. You lie down, cold and scared and then cry yourself to sleep, if you can.

I could hear Frank crying quietly. He was faintly sobbing into his pillow, mumbling the words "Sorry" "Wasn't Me" "Wrong Place" "Innocent". I wanted to believe he was, but I had had so many previous cellmates had said the same and weren't.

No-one wants to be guilty. It crushes you whenever the name of the person is spoken, whenever you think of them, or what you did. Even if it wasn't murder, the way you messed up will stay dormant in your head and come out to scare you in the worst moments, like a Jack in the Box.

In my case, I had been accused of setting the house my father died in on fire. Of course, I hadn't, I was just a suspect since I had survived the fire. But when they found my prints on lighter fluid that dated from 2 hours before the fire started, I was judged guilty and sent to prison with a life-sentence.

Frank kept sobbing, I wanted to help but he had to get used to it. Its's the best way to get through something, by yourself. You learn more that way. He needs to build character.