Never Alone

9 : 1 4 | A M

The cups of coffee were steaming hot, scalding heat seeping through the flimsy cardboard cup and into Elliot's hands. It was the kind of heat that made him want to immediately drop the cups and wave his hands around frantically until the uncomfortable warmth wore off. It was the kind of heat the made him feel light headed as his entire body temperature skyrocketed to the point of him sweating in places that he really, really should not be sweating. Or maybe that was more down to the man sitting in the centre of the room rather than the coffee.

The room was filled with hushed voices, each group trying to keep their conversation private as they attempted to ignore the guards positioned all around the room. It almost seemed as if everyone in the prison visitor centre had agreed to lie. To themselves. To lie and believe that there weren't guards watching them like they were all criminals. To lie and believe that, after their allotted time of talking, their loved one wouldn't return to a cell.

Elliot was sort of glad that his dad wasn't a dangerous enough criminal to be separated by glass. He already felt divided from his father as it was, he didn't need an extra barrier between them to tell him how far apart they were. He didn't need a stupid piece of glass to tell him to be afraid of his own father. Because he had no reason to be. Mabye. Sort of. Not really.

Pleading guilty hadn't stopped him from being placed in the centre of the room though, where all of the guards could see him. The thought unsettled Elliot. The guards were as terrifying as the prisoners. Even prison security had made him want to run for hills. He had almost bolted right on out of there when the receptionist asked for his student ID. To Elliot, entering a prison, even if it was just the visitor centre, was like entering another dimension. Another dimension where no one really trusts anyone.

His father sat at a small, round table, the same table that was identical to all the others in the room. Elliot couldn't help but wonder what crime all the other prisoners in the room had committed. And if the visitors still looked at them the same way.

Elliot placed the coffees down on the table and sat down opposite the man who couldn't possibly be his father. Because his dad was smart, funny, caring, loving, awesome and always shaved. The guy in front of him had quite a bit of stubble. His smile didn't hold much emotion either. It looked a bit fake, to be honest. Almost as if his lips were only smiling because they felt like they had to. Not as if they were generally happy about something. It reminded Elliot of something tired. Which was absurd, because being tired usually meant that you had done too much of something and he couldn't imagine that his dad had been smiling a lot lately. He supposed that a smile being tired wasn't the right term. It was more of a: I've-kind-of forgotten-how-to-smile smile. 

Elliot's dad looked the same, sure. Apart from the stubble and the smile that didn't quite belong on his face, sure. He looked like his dad. But he couldn't be his dad. Because his dad didn't kill people.

Elliot pushed a cup of coffee towards the-guy-who-pretty-much-looked-the-same-but-couldn't-possibly-be-his-dad and forced a smile. Unlike his dad's, Elliot's smile had the right to be tired. It had been smiling for too long now, too much happiness radiated when all he really wanted to do was break down and cry. It was exhausted, ready to yawn and settle down into a frowned resting position. But Elliot forced it to stay awake, even for just a second.

Because his dad looked tired. And maybe a smile would wake him up.

"Hey. I got your favourite type of coffee."