Page 3 of Sin

When the only thing to look forward to

Is sleep

I’d etched those words just below the mural. Had carved them into the stone so often that their grooves were permanently marked into the wall.

Memories of two years ago tried to creep in, and I squeezed my eyes closed in a vain attempt to banish them.

Flashes of my father’s face twisted in determined resolution burst behind my lids, just before he kissed my forehead, betraying me so thoroughly.

Then came more memories of those soulful eyes from the cell mural filled with such loss and despair and blame. Blame at me. Blame at the world.

Then came the images of a crumbling city on fire. A bloody teddy bear forgotten in the street.

My head screamed as I shoved and shoved, forcing those memories back into the chest where I kept them locked tightly inside.

Because I couldn’t face the past, the wreckage and pain I’d been a naive accomplice to.

I’d lost everything and everyone the day I broke my dad out of prison. I just hadn’t known it at the time.

Now, I lived underground in a Super prison housing some of the world’s most ruthless and lethal Villains. Because that’s how the world viewed me now. A true Villain they wanted locked tight. They likened me to the murderers and arsonists, the rapists and sadists. It didn’t matter that I hadn’t known what my dad planned to do.

I’d aided him in his escape from prison. And because of that, the crimes he committed after his prison break rested on my shoulders.

Some days, I hated him for what he’d done to me. How he’d used my need to make him proud against me.

I hated that I couldn’t look at my reflection without him staring back at me. Because while I took more after my mother with my light brown eyes, ample lips, and dark, wavy hair, there was no denying my resemblance to my father in the slope of my nose, the sharp angles of my jawline, and the devious curve to my smile.

But even on the days where I hated him, I still loved him.

I knew I shouldn’t. At the end, he’d caused so much harm, to me included.

But even knowing that, I still struggled to connect the man who raised me with the man who nearly killed half the world with his powers. With the man who loved my mother so fiercely, so intensely, that even from a young age, I knew I wanted to be looked at the same way my father looked at my mom.

She’d been beautiful, my mother. Her personality was as vibrant as the colorful, flowy skirts she always wore, and her smile was as bright as a drop of sunshine from the sky itself. My dad used to tell me I had her smile.

He hadn’t since the day she’d departed this world.

It was hard to comprehend, even now after so many years, that she was gone. That she’d never bake another batch of chocolate chip cookies or dance around the kitchen singing songs my abuela taught her. She’d never kiss my brow and call me her little saint.

My father hadn’t been the same since she died. His grief clouded his judgment, made him obsess over a way to bring justice down on those who’d killed her and so many other innocents like her.

He’d done unspeakable things in her name, in the name of justice and honor. In reality, he was just a heartbroken man who wanted the world to hurt just like him.

Sometimes, as I sat staring at the linework I’d gouged into the wall, I wondered if there was true justice in the world. If it really was possible to right a wrong. To find forgiveness for those who’d wronged us. If there truly was such a thing as justice though, it didn’t seem to care about the incarcerated.

Still, I tried to hope. Because intentionally or not, I’d wronged many people. Including the beautiful man on my wall.

Reaching out, I barely managed to brush the image with my fingertips. He was so beautiful. My mural didn’t do him justice. I never managed to capture that fire in his brown eyes, the richness of his dark skin, or the way the sun glossed over his ebony curls.

Jeers and shouts rained from down the hall as the sound of heavy footsteps made their way closer, pulling me out of my morbid thoughts. I didn’t even bother lifting my head when four armed guards sauntered inside my cell.

“Sinclair Gonzalez,” the guard at the front of the group drawled, his voice like a bucket of ice water over my head. Dread threatened to consume me when I realized the oil remained unopened in my pocket.

“Michael Wazowski,” I greeted with a flash of teeth, hoping he couldn’t sense my panic. It was never smart to let other inmates know you were scared. Those down here delighted in fear.

Officer Michaels, or as he was nicknamed Mike, glared at me. “How many times do I have to tell you, Gonzalez? That’s not my name.”

“Are you sure?” I asked, pretending to squint at his badge. “Pretty sure it says Michael Ci´clope Wazowski right there on your badge.”

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