A Little Lethal

| Chapter 7 |desperation|

If I got locked away
And we lost it all today
Tell me honestly would you still love me the same?
If I showed you my flaws
If I couldn't be strong
Tell me honestly would you still love me the same?
Would you still love me the same?

~~

The trial was intimidating, to say the least and Connor was glad it was over. He prayed no one had noticed the sweat that had accumulated on his forehead and hoped that he had done a good job hiding the nervous twitch in his eyebrow.

It was an old habit he had picked up whenever he was anxious.

The judge had been a douche, as expected, but the punishments weren't as harsh as Connor had imagined. He thought it had something to do with how the judge had looked as if he were in heaven right when he came to work and he was thankful to the poor wife who had probably put him in that mood.

Jasper was let off with the mandatory wood chopping and medical duty. It was lucky that the jail was low on funds and the judge had jumped at the opportunity to save money for a doctor.

Kyros on the other hand, had to do menial jobs no one wanted to do, but at least he was saved from being whipped like the last time he had disobeyed orders. It had been before Jasper had arrived.

But Connor knew the wounds from that whipping still hadn't healed, both the physical and the mental.

He turned to Jasper, "Alright. So you're on medical duty as well as on wood chopping duty. I'll have prisoner 223 show you how it's done."

The prisoners had numbers?

Jasper was shocked that the humans had been reduced to a mere set of numbers, but then again it was what was expected of a jail, all criminals were given an assigned number.

He wondered, did he have a number as well?

Connor probably realised what he was thinking and looked at him patiently.

"What is my number?" It came out harsh and rude, but Jasper was past the stage of amiability now.

Connor's eyes hardened, "501"

Prisoner no. 501- Jasper.

And he was a criminal now.

This fact hadn't fully sunk into his mind and he still reeled from the shock of the label that would now be forever associated with his name, even if he got out of that prison.

He had become something that most would avoid, be scared of or ignore completely.

Being a closeted gay was much better than being a gay prisoner and having that label stuck over all your records.

He had become a disgrace.

He remembered as a child when he had mocked the prisoners and the documentaries they had shown of the poor life conditions of the prisoners. He remembered thinking that people who committed sins deserved it, that they could not be counted as human because of their actions.

He had let the prisoners' actions define their entire lives and existence. He had mocked, scorned and teased when the school had taken them for the volunteering session at the local jail for thieves.

He had been separated from the group and had felt like a scared baby, quivering in fear all alone, ready to be eaten by the imprisoned men who were probably all cannibals.

He remembered tripping over his own trembling legs and falling down to the cold, cemented floor of the jail and crying about his bloodied hands and bruising knees.