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SEPTEMBER 12TH, 2016
CYNTHIA'S TRIALS WERE over as soon as they seemingly started.
She had been found guilty, and put in jail. But, her jail, was there in the same place she had already been staying in. Except, she was given a 'proper' cell room.
Though she had managed to send a letter away to Jamie before her imprisonment, it didn't make her feel any better. Her journal was one of the only things keeping her sane in that prison cell, until one day, Sam showed up for the first time in a week.
"Hey, blondie, got you something," Sam said, holding a retro stereo, and a small bag of tapes. Cynthia's eyes narrowed, and she asked, confused, "What is that?"
"Well, Cap said you could have some stuff here in your cell. So, I decided to give you my stereo from when I was a kid. I don't have any use for it, so I figured it might keep you company." Sam explained. Cynthia chuckled as her guard, Jeremy, opened the cell door just enough for Sam to walk in, and set it down on the dresser next to her bed that was only filled with undergarments, and more prison scrubs.
Her cell was big enough for her bed, her dresser, and four people to stand in. A small door in the corner of the room only held a shower, sink, and toilet.
Plugging the stereo into one of the outlets in the wall practically behind the dresser, Cynthia took the bag of cassette tapes from Sam's hands. She dumped the bag out onto her bed, and grinned as she looked through them. Lots of the tapes were from singers she recognized, one being Jamie and Maisie's personal favorite to sing—Diana Ross—Cynthia felt nostalgic. "My son and my best friend's daughter used to always sing these to the two of us, back in the late 80s, and early 90s. Seeing some of these singer's tapes again makes me feel nostalgic."
Sam laughed, grabbing one of the tapes, and put it into the stereo carefully. Cynthia easily recognized the singer's voice instantly after he started singing, and looked over at Sam, saying, "It's Lionel Richie!"
"You know him?" Sam asked, grinning. The music elevated their moods, and Cynthia closed her eyes, sitting down on her bed, replying simply, "He's only one of my favorite singers."
Their moment was interrupted when Scott Lang walked towards the cell door, and said, "Hey, wings, you're needed by our man of America."
Sam rolled his eyes, and told Cynthia, "You enjoy these tapes, okay? I wouldn't want them getting ruined, 'cause you're the only person I can trust with them."
Cynthia opened her eyes, and smiled at Sam, wiggling a goodbye with her fingers as Sam left her cell. Talking with him reminded her of talking with Millie, whom she hadn't talked to in the past six months, due to Millie being busy with her job in S.H.I.E.L.D. and her wedding plans.
Cynthia leaned on the cell bars, looking at her two guards. Unfortunately, Beck was neither of them. But, he was across the room as another guard, which Cynthia had convinced Steve to have included for her safety. Deciding to write in her journal again, Cynthia swiftly turned towards her dresser.
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SEPTEMBER 12TH, 2016
DEAR DIARY,
Today, Sam gave me a stereo.
And currently, it's playing: Lionel Richie.
Oh, how it sucks, that I've never gone to one of his concerts. Or anyone's, for that matter. I'm caught up in my head currently, and I don't want to be. I remember my mother telling me, the day she died, too, "Don't be afraid to stand up for yourself. Especially against him." Him, being Stephen.
Before I try and get more emotional, let's take the advice from Jamie: Write down all of my favorite things, besides people.
My favorite color is blue, my favorite food are the hot dogs from that stand a couple blocks away from home in New York, and the favorite place I've lived in is England.
My favorite weather is rain, and my favorite season is spring. My favorite holiday is Christmas, and my favorite thing to do is read, my favorite book being Pride and Prejudice.
Jamie and Maisie used to think it was super funny when I would obsessively watch the BBC edition of Pride and Prejudice, and how I managed to order it online from the UK, which I made the entire family watch it with me, and how I cried at how beautiful it was.
I hate cravings, because currently, I really want fruit roll—ups. Oh, there's that guy with the arrows, I'm going to go bother him about it.
—CYNTHIA
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Setting her journal on the dresser next to her, Cynthia turned off the stereo and tried not to rush over to the cell door. As the guy with the arrows went to walk away, Cynthia went, "Pssst, arrows."
His head whipped around, his eyes narrowing, and he asked, "Are you talking to me?"
"No, I'm talking to my guards. Yes, I'm talking to you." Cynthia hissed back in response, and he rolled his eyes, coming towards Cynthia's cell door.
"Can you do me a favor?" Cynthia asked, and he narrowed his eyes. "I'll do anything at this point to get some god damn fruit roll-ups."
"And you expect me to get you some, because . . . ?" He asked, and Cynthia finally remembered seeing his name in a file: Clint.
"Well, Clint, maybe if one day, you need something done, and you can't do that yourself, you can call me up." Cynthia tried to explain to Clint, who rolled his eyes, and said, "You won't let me leave until I get you those damn roll-ups. Right?"
"Right."
Clint started walking away, saying, "I'll see what I can do, pigtails."
Rolling her eyes, Cynthia turned away from her cell door, and took the tape out of the stereo, replacing it with the Eurythmics, turning up the volume, and muting the world around her.
A week later, Cynthia woke up to find a box of twelve fruit roll-ups sitting next to her stereo.
