Witness

36. Tony

In an alternate universe, Tony Mierro was a free man. 

He had blue eyes and blond hair and he was not born into a family bred for violence. In this universe he didn't have a family at all; he was a lone wolf, a big business man focused on the money alone. He was real fucking rich. Shitfaced rich. 

Only he wasn't shitfaced, because in this universe he did not have a severe drug addiction. He just had a lot of money, a huge apartment, and not a single problem in the entire world. He was warm, satiated, safe, happy. 

But here, in a prison cell on remand, he was born into that family, and he was going through withdrawal symptoms due to addiction. 

The sweating was the worst. He could deal with shaking, with pure unadulterated need, with headaches and sickness, but the fucking sweating was his line in the sand. 

Tony got access to a shower two or three times a week. He had one set of clothes and couldn't afford to pay for a second, because Damien would not answer any of his calls and therefore his prison spending account remained empty. 

The t-shirt sticking to his skin was yellow with sweat. If he didn't hold his head back the smell of his clothes made the nausea worse, and yes, he'd thrown up on himself a couple times, too. 

How the mighty fall. 

"Mierro," a voice called. 

One of the guards Damien had paid off a few times stood outside of his cell holding one of those classic police batons that the cops in London loved to swing around. He was dressed to the nines in uniform, as sharply dressed as he was important. 

"What?" Tony grumbled, voice course like sandpaper. 

Anger had leaked out of him. He had no energy left for shouting. He just wanted out. 

He'd made promises that he'd become a better person to God, who he did not believe in, but if he did end up out of this hell-hole by some miracle, he was sure he'd keep that promise. At least, in his headache filled brain he was sure. 

The guard, Gibbons, stared at him. 

"Damien?" Tony asked, not daring tip his head forward. 

If he stayed sat against the wall, if he didn't move an inch of his body, it hurt a little less. He'd scratched off the skin of his hands within the first two days, busted all of his knuckles fighting himself in a cage, and bruised his own face headbutting the bars when a particular guard he didn't like goaded him. 

Those injuries were nothing compared to the withdrawal symptoms. He'd gnaw off his own foot to stop the sweating; to have clean clothes and clean skin and hair that wasn't cemented to his body. 

"No," said Gibbons, who continued to stare at him. "He hasn't contacted me." 

A small flame Tony wasn't aware was still lit in his chest went out. 

Damien punished. 

He believed wholeheartedly in an eye for an eye and he always went out of his way to set the record straight. Tony couldn't remember a time that he fucked up and Damien didn't come down on him like a ton of bricks. The shitty apartment, the ignorance, the access to the business cut away from him. 

Tony had been on the receiving end of it all, and it seemed like Damien had gotten bored of punishing him. Or ran out of ideas. 

Now he was here. On his own, surrounded by scumbags worse than himself, marinating in his own bodily fluids. Cairo and Jordan probably couldn't stop laughing at the idea of it.