Good Boy Ryker [COMPLETED]

Bonus Chapter: Abudance of Letters

Bonus Chapter 1

IN THE PALM of my hands lies multiple flat coverings of papers, rectangular in shape and with a flap that seemed to be folded over and sealed. I gripped on so tightly despite the fact that my palms were sore and burned.

Quite frankly, it appeared to be an abundance of self-written, letters.

Anyone who knows me knows reading wasn't exactly my forte. There are other things in life I would much rather be doing than sitting here with, what seemed like, hundreds of letters in my hand, contemplating what's beneath the surface.

There was no softness in my gaze. It was a look that conveyed a bubbling hatred, the moment I glanced around. Disgust perhaps. Disconcerted I averted my eyes to the ebony colored, grandfather clock as if checking the time. I'm generally a bit of a loner but right now a crowd will soothe me.

Beckham locked eyes with me from across the cell, arms folded and a hellishly mean glare on his face. This was the proverbial guard, he paused for a moment, before slinking over to the other side facing the other inmates, slumping against the steel bars.

The jail cell is nothing but four walls and a futon, cot, everything grey. The lighting is artificial only, I've spent enough time in here to forget what a tree looks like or the feel of the wind on a stormy day.

The jail cell is the least of my concerns, though. It's grey walls do not hit me or steal my rations; the lumpy bed does not sing the same one line of a half-forgotten song over and over until I loose the last threads of sanity I was clinging to. The ceiling drips but it doesn't whisper in my ears of the beating it plans to give me in the cold showers.

Averting my eyes back to the letters I sighed. They were too painful to read upon receiving them all those years ago. So I collected every single one of them for the last five years, but today would be the day I'd read them. All of them. Like actually read them, not skim but analyze whatever is behind the ink.

Unfolding the flaps of the slightly torn envelope I pulled out a crisp letter, with blue ink scrambled over the paper. I curled up into the corner of my cot and began reading the very first letter I've ever received, all those years ago.

Dear Devyn Foster,

You turned every moment we spent together into painful memories. They are sharp, and cut right through me everytime I think about those times. Even the sweet good moments we had are now turned into a knife that kills my already broken heart. You pierced my soul; you made me skeptical about people and love. And I hate you. I fucking hate you for that. You turned me into this broken mess, and even if I won't see you again, your touch will be with me for years, or maybe for the rest of my life, who knows. You fucked up my confidence, and I remember every single word you said. Every single word. They are sharp, and cut right through me. And I hate you. I fucking hate you for that.