Framed

Prologue

A/N: I think I should warn the readers that there's some "ghetto" language in this prologue. It's not that we, authors, lack the ability to write/talk... it's just how we wanted this character to talk. Thank you for talking your time to read this short message! Sorry to bother you :P

The storm raged with acrimony, lashing whip-like rain against the faded-red brick building. It mauled off the pieces of high fences with wirings around them, but never touched the bricks. Guard towers' lights beamed in the hazy, dark storm, barely noticeable. It gave out quite a moody feeling like perhaps it was admonishing the pitiful humans that dared to see freedom again.

He wanted to.

He wanted to taste the freedom and flee the country as his former cellmates had done, but he had neither the manpower nor the guts to do so.

His heart wept in agony. It yearned to see her again. She, who captivated him and made him her puppy.

Why did he stay? He eyed the bright orange suit that clothed his body. How did he deserve this?

"Hand ova da rock, thug. Dat be an orda, Zory."

Zory peered up from his suit to his cellmate, King Loki, who lay peacefully on a bunk across his. King was a chocolate-burly tattooed man with gauges as big as a golf ball. His skin was marked with not only tats, but also a chain of scars, which King mentioned was a bunch of war junks. Not even one that was worth memorizing. Even when one of them was a knife-cut that ran from his forearm to his shoulder and transpired to be from a female officer. His reason for being in jail was quite the extreme-the cop couldn't get enough of him. Zory snorted and imagined the female's expression whenever King was around.
It was always irritated, never once a smile or a twinkle in those hazel eyes. Even if she did like him, she hid it quite well.

"Pookie!" Zory never paid close heed to King's voice, but every time the older man spoke, he cringed. It was hoarse and honeyed, but his feature gave little to no pleasure of his presence. It made him resemble much of a slimmier, sketchier joker, who could be hiding his intentions to extirpate him with kindness. Nevertheless, Zory did not want to find out.

He reached under his mattress for a pile of rocks that he managed to sneak inside. He kept them more for his safety than for beauty. He lacked trust in the prisoners who scrutinized him like bacon on a platter. It left him awake for days, petrified that he would one day wake up to find someone trying to beat him and shape him into a bowling ball.
It was not easy to hide the rocks, anyhow. King found out about them and blackmailed him that unless he did exactly as told, he would tell the guards. So, Zory did.

He chucked the biggest and heaviest rock to King and winced when the man bit into it.

"This is the new apple," King chuckled, masticating the pieces of the rock in his mouth and swallowing. He eyed Zory with a smirk and tossed the rock to him. "Smoke, it's healthy fo' yo'."

"On a scale from one to ten, how is this exactly, 'healthy'?"

"Dat gotta be our escape route out o' here. Besides, ever heard bout' dat lady who ate rocks fo' twenty years?"

"There's just no way-"

"Dat happens. Dat stuff just how da ghetto came ta be," King coughed loudly and flinched in pain.

Zory wanted to ask him if eating rocks were the results of his pain since King has been eating them since the week he retrieved them from the community fields, but he held back his tongue.
It has been five years since he came to the prison. Five. Long. Painful. Years.
King was his first and only "friend". He was actually the only man in prison who could understand him when it came to being discarded from families and accused of a mess that had yet to create itself. In fact, King mentioned how he was once married to a wife with three kids. They were his "heaven" and his "life", which was odd to envisage. How does one scary-looking man have a soft spot for kids and a wife?

It was practically impossible to squeeze out the tiny information that King has been holding back- their death. Zory had to keep rubbing on the wound until it bled uncontrollably. The beans were spilled and it was never-ending.

"They died in a den fire, long ago. I was out in the field, tending ta da crops. Dat was mid-day o' February with sexy fields of greens n' bright shades of yellows. Da sun was hot. Dat was summer, I believe. Things just happened so suddenly. Next thang I know, I smelled smoke. I ran home ta check on my wife n' kids, n' there ain't nothing but a pile of ashes. What was once a Victorian Mansion soon became dust. Poor ma, blamed me fo' their disappearance. Never again did I saw poor ole daylight. I was thrown into jail n' neva given a second thought."

Occasionally, Zory would hear King mumble his wife's name repeatedly in his sleep.

Samantha...

Samantha...

Samantha...

It was a nightmare that Zory had to constantly hear and observe. The older man would scream, grasp the air, and wake up the other cellmates; giving the guards a reason to beat him silent... but it never did stop.
Eventually, Zory agreed to whisper soothing words into the man's ear and pretend he was Samantha. It eventually became a habit that Zory has grown accustomed to. That was until the man slapped him did he stop.

"I never did ask," Zory tossed the rock back under his mattress and stared up at King. "Where are you from and how did you earn the name King?"

King roared with laughter. He slapped his thighs and tears rolled down his face. The younger man raised an eyebrow. What did he say that was so funny?

"What-"

"Kid, neva ask dat question again. Dat has a reason o' its own n' yo' r' not ta find out so simply in a question. A dumb one, even. I be titled King fo' a reason. Dat reason be because I be King. I be da rula o' a gang in New Mexico. Ever heard o' Twix Dragon? Never? Well, I can guarantee da they r' worth dat time. Yo' should join da family. N' where the heck I be from be out of your concern. I can be from New Hampshire n' yo' gotta not have a clue, but I be not from da north or da west or da far east... I be a southernera. I be da solid gold o' da Mississippi. Naw, where the heck be yo' from?"


Zory frowned. It was never in his intention to insult the man, but assuming from the outburst he'd received; his questions had hit a soft spot.

"I'm from California, but was born in Russia," Zory replied with a smile. King Loki raised an eyebrow and rolled his eyes. It never interested the man in seeing other human beings smile. It was a "curse" to see, so Zory had heard. A reminder of what Loki could not and dared not have.

"If it's not so insulting to ask, do you speak English? Like proper English?" Zory asked without hesitations.

Loki licked his lips and smiled. "I be speakin' English, be I not?"

The Russian boy cringed. "Sure, sure."

"If dis not too rude ta ask, why do yo' speak English, mate? Where da accent o' yours? Yo' native tongue?" Loki chuckled at the blush that grew on the boy's face. "Did I ask too much?"

No, Zory thought, but well played on the card. That was clever.

"My accent has faded when I came to America. I do not know any Russian since I was raised in this country, after all, and learned proper English."

"Touché."

Clang.

The two prisoners jumped as their cell door opened. Four guards entered with guns in their hands. They eyed King cautiously while gesturing for Zory to follow them. King has earned his keeps in prison. Once, the guards took Zory out to give him a shot, when out-of-the-blue, King Loki knocked them out cold. He believed he was protecting Zory from his own death, or, so he says.
He even managed to push aside five other guards and lead them both back to their cell. Why they went back to the cell was beyond his concern. How he escaped the cell and found him was his wonder.
But King never answered those types of questions. Just told him that he had to be more alert.

"We are just taking him to have a new chat with a man from the north. He will be back within time as promised."

King snorted. "Is dat wut dey say nowadays? Promize? What a lame werd."

"Loki, I'll inform you if anything goes wrong," Zory reassured the older man.

The older man scoffed at that and glared at the guards. "If my mate comes back en two, da cork iz getteng it."

The prison guards rushed Zory out of the cell. He could hear his cellmate's laughter echo throughout the hall. A smile etched its way to his lips. King knew just how to get to the younger men without having to physically beat them. One simple threat can simply turn the guards from puppies to trained dogs.
And that's just how Zory likes them.
The handcuffs dropped to the concrete floor with a CLING. He rubbed his wrists and sighed in relief. He hated being handcuffed in his cell. It was a policy that formed ever since he and King entered a fight with the other inmates. Cuffs were to be placed on the strongest of men, while the weakest one was able to freely roam around the cell and enjoy the little of freedom they could taste.

"In this room," one of the guards ordered, pushing him into a small room with a single bed in the corner. On the bed sat an elderly, frail man with skin as pale as fresh milk. A cane with the four living creatures carved into it rested gently along his side.

The man's violet eyes glistened as though he had been crying. His body limped lowly when he stood on his feet and gestured for the guards to leave.

"Zor, you aged well, my child. How have you been?" grunted the man. He cleared his throat and coughed loudly, making Zory flinch at the raucous sound.

"So and so. Got a comrade back at the cell, who assisted me in helping me stay on my feet during the years. So, I have not been thinking about the past or anything out of ordinary."

"Out of ordinary?" The elderly man chuckled. "Is that what you're calling it? Out of ordinary?"

"Well, yeah. Pastor Brian, do-"

"It's Brian now, child. My son is now the pastor of my church."

Zory ignored him and continued. "Do keep in mind that I raped that woman. So, what's done is done. There's nothing to it."

"Did you really rape her?" Brian coughed again and leaned on his cane. His eyes trailed from the closed, white-padded door to the skinny, yet impatient man. "It has been five years, Zory. You're now twenty-three years old. Has the case really planted a seed into your head?"

"No. I just gave up on it."

Brian placed a firm hand onto the younger man's shoulder and squeezed. "Never give up on such a thing. The upshot may surprise you far more than you realize."

"So I've been told."

"Do tell," the elder said, sitting on the cot and forcing Zory to follow suit. "Tell me what really happened."

"It's not exactly that easy to tell. I don't really know where to start."

"What was the first memory you remember with her?"

"Seeing her in her front lawn, planting flowers into plant pots, while wearing a summer dress with dandelions all over it."

"And?"

"Thinking how beautiful she was and how she resembles much of an innocent kitten."

"Carry on."