"I'm crying out for help "
<c o r e y>
Corey leaned back against the cold concrete wall of his cell, staring into the nothingness. The days blended together, each one stripped of meaning, just a relentless march of hours in a place that was designed to make you forget yourself. But some things you couldn't forget, no matter how much time passed. Some things lived inside you, like ghosts.
It was nighttime now, and the murmurs of other prisoners filled the hall. Laughter, anger, fights—it was all part of the soundtrack here. Every so often, Corey would hear someone shout or laugh like they had something to live for, but for him, those moments felt far away, like they belonged to a life he no longer remembered.
"Yo, Carter," came a familiar voice from the other side of the cell. Rico, his cellmate, gave him a knowing look, his face half-hidden in shadow. "You're always starin' off like that. Man, what you thinkin' 'bout?"
Corey sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. He thought about shrugging it off, but something made him answer. "Just thinkin' about everything... about what got me here."
Rico snorted, sitting up on his bunk. "Ain't we all, man? Ain't nobody in here not thinkin' 'bout that. But you—you got that lawyer, that fine Ms. Giselle, tryin' to get you out. You got more hope than most of us."
The mention of Giselle stirred something in him. She was so different from this place, like sunlight in a room with no windows. Whenever she walked in, with her sleek suits and that sharp, unwavering gaze, she reminded him of everything he didn't have. He was fascinated by her, and he knew that was dangerous. It was best not to want what he couldn't keep.
"Giselle... she's somethin' else," he murmured, almost to himself. "She actually listens, you know? Treats me like I'm more than just a case."
Rico gave a low chuckle. "Man, that woman got it bad for you. I've seen the way she looks at you. She don't look at you like you're some killer. She looks at you like you're a damn prince."
Corey shook his head. "Nah, Rico. She's just doin' her job, tryin' to clear my name. Nothin' more to it."
"Oh, come on. She's comin' to see you more than most wives visit their husbands. You gotta know there's somethin' there." Rico's grin turned sly. "And, hell, who wouldn't wanna look at a man like you? I mean, I don't swing that way, but even I can see you got somethin'."
Corey gave a short laugh, despite himself. It was the first genuine one he'd had in a while. But even as he laughed, the memories he'd been trying to bury began to surface again.
He closed his eyes, and he was back in that night.
It was just another night in the cramped, beat-up house he'd grown up in. The air was thick with the smell of stale cigarettes, and he could still hear the low hum of the TV, blaring some late-night talk show no one was paying attention to. His mother was hunched over in the corner of the living room, eyes red, breathing shallow. His father, already a few drinks deep, was looming over her, yelling about God-knows-what.
"Corey!" his mother's voice had been faint, a fragile whisper almost lost in the noise.
Corey had tried to ignore it at first, to keep his head down. He was just a kid, after all. But something inside him snapped that night. He saw the way his father's hand gripped his mother's arm, leaving bruises in its wake, and he couldn't stand by anymore.
"What you lookin' at, boy?" his father had sneered when he caught Corey watching.
"You gotta stop, Dad," Corey had said, his voice shaking but firm.
