Page 4 of Deliver Me

At least his work went toward the prison itself and he wasn’t sewing bras for Victoria’s Secret, unlike prisoners in some other institutions he’d heard about. It was a good system for the prison and the company, maximizing profit under the guise of giving the prisoners job skills and a way to pay for their own room and board, but it was an obvious labor scam. He’d been around enough shady deals to know one when it hit him in the face.

He settled in behind an industrial-sized sewing machine, and the hours passed in a blur of stitching on white fabric. There was only a short break for lunch—if two hot dogs with sauerkraut tossed on top, a slice of white bread, and a scoop of cold canned carrots could really be qualified as a meal—to break up the monotony until late in the afternoon.

He glanced up from his machine as the sounds of fighting erupted behind him, barely audible over the roar of the machines, despite the proximity of the beating that was happening a few feet away. A young man was curled up on the floor, arms wrapped protectively around his head as an older inmate with a shaved head and a swastika tattooed on his neck rained down a series of vicious kicks.

“You think you can get away with bumping into me and not paying attention to where you’re going, you dumb piece of shit? You worthless—” The rest was cut off as the guards finally reached him and wrenched him away from his victim.

He left the room in restraints, destined for disciplinary action that likely meant nothing to a man already serving a life sentence while the young man he assaulted was sent to the medical ward for stitches and ibuprofen, blood running over his dark skin and onto his white uniform.

Gabriel went back to his sewing.

There was nothing he could have done to help that wouldn’t have made things worse for the kid and gotten himself written up, too. The kid was new, and he was going to have to get hardor do his time with a target on his back. He was lucky that this had been a beating, instead of a stabbing or worse. Prison was a living hell for anyone identified as an easy target.

There were cameras everywhere and the guards patrolled constantly, monitoring for signs of contraband or the violence that was never far from the surface, but it wasn’t enough. It didn’t stop the beatings or the drugs. Prisoners were nothing if not inventive, and they had plenty of time for scheming, especially if they considered the reward sufficient. The guards didn’t run this prison, the gangs did.

Gabriel had resisted the pressure to join up with any specific gang, having had his fill of that bullshit before getting arrested, but plenty of others hadn’t and the slightest misstep was enough for a man to end up dead. Hell, sometimes the way you looked was enough, as the kid currently getting stitched up had found out the hard way.

By the time they made it back to the day room, Gabriel was in a bad mood. As usual he opted to skip the limited opportunity they had for TV or social interaction and withdrew to his cell. Everyone in here had something that helped keep them sane. Some had drugs, Alex had a surprising love for reality TV, and he had art. Paper, like everything else in here, was exorbitantly expensive but at least his stone-cold cunt of a mother kept his commissary card full every month, even if she hadn’t spoken a word to him since he was fifteen years old.

He lost himself in the smooth glide of his pencil and ignored his cellmate when Alex finally threw himself down on his bunk not long before lights’ out.

“Looks like I got a letter from my brother,” Alex mused, rustling the day’s mail in his hands before realizing Gabriel wasn’t going to answer and tossing a letter onto his bunk with a smirk.

Gabriel sighed, holding it up to find that she had written his name on the envelope herself this time. The woman was obnoxiously persistent, and he knew the type. Probably middle-aged and mousy, sure that her own husband and children were flawless and therefore convinced that she knew how to fix everyone else’s problems, too.

One of his childhood friends, the rich kind that he’d known before he was sent to live with his Uncle Richard, had had a mom exactly like that. Sanctimonious. Pious. Obnoxious. He used to get high in the garage with that kid while his dad fucked the babysitter and he wondered now if she’d ever figured out how little she’d actually had to hold over the rest of them.

He pulled out the letter, curiosity getting the better of him but still prepared for an unwelcome lecture.

Gabriel,

I don’t know what you did to be in prison, but no one deserves to be lonely for the rest of their lives.

I think you wrote that last letter to try and scare me and it worked for a little while, but I know that God commands me not to fear and to love my neighbor as myself.

I’m ashamed that I considered complying with your request to write to someone else, and I’m sorry you feel undeserving of someone to talk to.

I’m not afraid and I’d like to continue to write to you if you don’t mind?

Mia

He didn’t know what to think about this lady and her odd determination to put herself at risk trying to be friends with a dangerous stranger, but her response bothered him. He’d signed his letter with his real name, hoping to frighten her when she realized the extent of the crimes he had been convicted for, but she hadn’t responded to that information at all. His trial had been plastered all over the TV for months and he didn’t thinkthere was a single person in the country that didn’t know his name and his face by the time it was all over. There were several possibilities in his mind but only one of them made sense.

He wrote a single sentence before stuffing the slightly crumpled piece of paper in an envelope.

How old are you?

Chapter Three

Mia’s brows drew together as she sat, curled comfortably in the center of her bed, and read Gabriel’s most recent letter.

You’re a child and whoever allowed you to write to dangerous prisoners is a fucking idiot. You’d know that if you were even old enough to remember who the hell I am. It’s not like what I’ve done was a secret. Go back to your church group, little girl, and save yourself the trouble. You shouldn’t be talking to monsters like me.

There was no greeting, no signature, but even with the obvious hostility she seemed to be making some progress. At least it was a full paragraph this time.

She’d been flabbergasted by that last letter.

How old are you?

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