Discoveries | TMR | Three

2:5

From the moment the door to their cell swings closed and the sound of footsteps is nothing but a mere whisper in the wind, Travis crumbles.

He drops onto his bottom, his legs kicked out to the side and his entire upper body being help solely by his right elbow. His head is hung with exhaustion, his heart thumping in his chest, his lungs begging for air but his ribcage refusing to allow him more than short and rapid breaths. He feels... dazed, confused, and the searing pain that vibrates through his chest as the adrenaline gradually dwindles does nothing to aid him.

Frankie is by his side within a matter of mere seconds; a new record, Travis thinks. "Yo, man, you a'ight?"

Travis stays where he is, regardless of the steady hand his cellmate offers. Gasping. Choking. Heaving. Spitting. Getting it all out. A mixture of blood, saliva and god only knows what else. His ears ring; white noise barrelling into his drums, throwing him off balance and forcing him to plummet with every staggered attempt he makes at standing.

"Why you always gotta provoke 'em like that?" Frankie asks, tutting. He jerks when Travis stumbles again; his hands gripping into Travis' even more so than before. "Don't get me wrong, I ain't blamin' ya, but come on, man, you know they only use Brenda to bait you."

"I know." Travis winces as he talks. Finally managing to find steady ground, he clutches the side of his bed for leverage.

"You know?" Frankie cannot fathom the boys thought process. "You know and you to it e'rytime. Gettin' yourself all fucked up over a chick they pro'lly ain't even touchin'."

With the help of his cellmate, Travis makes it onto his bed, his left arm tightly clasping his stomach as his ribs continue to burn from the beating. He slowly pivots and gradually lowers himself until he lays on his back; his body stretched out fully, with his heels dangling loosely from the end, groaning and screwing his face up in pain at every fraction of a movement. Frankie stands up and trudges into the toilet stall, clearly in a foul mood.

"You telling me you wouldn't do the same if it was Heather they were threatening?" Travis calls out to him, wincing when he does.

Frankie can be heard clattering around in the stall, though that sound soon ceases to exist. "Hey now, don't you go bringin' my girl into this," he warns. "She ain't got nothin' to do with nothin'."

"I'm not bringing her into it." Travis rolls his eyes. "I'm asking if you'd do the same."

There is a pause, and despite not being in view, Travis already knows that Frankie is silently cursing him for speaking the truth. "You right, I pro'lly would," he eventually states. "But the difference between you n' me is that I gots composure. I ain't testin' their patience, and 'cause of that, I gets to see my girl." The clattering in the toilet commences once again. "You don't even know if Brenda's still here."

As much as Travis may despise the thought, Frankie is right. He does not know if Brenda is still here, for he has never seen her here - not since the beginning, anyway. Not since the guards began using her as a pawn to aggravate him; something which he wholeheartedly blames Jorge for. These guards should not even know of the relations between Brenda and him... fuck, as far as he is aware, they know nothing of the relations of any of the teenagers they swiped up at the Right Arm, so how do they know about Brenda and Travis? How do they know that the two of them grew up together?

It has to be Jorge.

"She's gotta be." Still, despite his lack of knowledge, he remains hopeful that she is still here. Still in the same building as him. "They wouldn't constantly bring her up if she wasn't."

"Or they just try'na rile you up," Frankie responds without missing a beat. He paces from the stall with a plastic cup of water and some toilet roll, dropping to his knees by the side of the bed. "Lift your shirt."