Page 13 of Deviant Illusions

Twelve fucking years.

The first couple of years, I could have adjusted. I still had hope of an appeal working in my favor, hope for freedom. To breathe without someone timing me, to piss without someone watching me.

After years of solitary, it waned. Now, I don’t even trust myself anymore. Nothing about me or the world is familiar. Even the fucking clock looks different as it ticks away on the wall. It’s a stupid thing to notice, something inconsequential that most people wouldn’t notice. Yet I do, because I’m like an alien visiting this new planet for the first time. Everything has a faint resemblance to what I remember, yet it’s not the same.

The one thing that they tell prisoners to keep them sane is to remember there are people waiting for them. Life sentences don’t get that. They get tasks to complete so they feel like they’re contributing during their sentence to prevent them going crazy. But I didn’t. Segregation doesn’t allow the opportunity to learn or socialize. No fucking eighteen-year-old has socialskills. They’re not really an adult. But I’ve been thrust into an adult body when the last time I was free I was a teenager, allowed to make stupid decisions like believing in hope.

My high slowly wears off, and I sit myself up. It doesn’t stop the tremor in my jaw, and Niko copies me as he bends his knees and sits opposite me on the shitty fucking floor. There are stains on it—cum, blood, or piss. Who fucking knows when I can’t even afford this shithole?

“How long?” he asks without any judgment in his tone.

I no longer have parents after they disowned me, so he doesn’t get to act like it. Or worse, like an older brother.

“How long, what?” I mumble as my jaw continues moving of its own accord.

“Have you been using for?” Still, there’s no judgment. No ire at me needing an escape.

But I lie. “I’m not. I was prescribed some meds to help with the insomnia and they space me out.”

He doesn’t buy my bullshit, and the meds I was given weren’t for anything mental. It was all physical. That’s something I never knew about prisons. Something I never thought about before my life was ruined. Being around people who have nothing to lose provides a new insight into the human psyche. A person with nothing to lose isn’t shackled by expectation or responsibility. They’re truly free to do whatever the fuck they want because having no repercussions doesn’t pose a threat.

“Yeah?” Niko scoffs. “You a horse now?”

My brows pinch together as he raises to his full height and towers over me. He takes half a step forward, and my jaw locks. The tension calls his attention, and he abruptly stops. His voice is softer, calmer, as he says, “Ketamine is for horses. Don’t take that shit.”

He slowly holds his hand out to me, but I refuse it as I force my body to move. I manage to get on my feet, however shakily, and he stares. There was a time that he offered me protection, but his familial ties weren’t enough when my own were more insidious. If I was beaten for the sins of my blood, I could accept that. But to live knowing that your own fucking family are repulsed by the thought of you sinks deeper.

“My offer still stands,” Niko softly says to my back as I stumble through the one-bedroom apartment.

I go into the bathroom and wash my face, ignoring his attempts to get me to work for him. Money doesn’t interest me. Neither does crime. So working as a hired brute for a mafia family might keep me out of prison, but it’ll also force me to be around people. The clean patch of tile where the mirror once sat glares at me under the lights. I can’t look into that thing when the motherfucker staring back at me isn’t me. It will always be him. The first-born twin, the only one who should’ve existed when I was always destined to be his reflection. Even his death fucked my life up.

“Kane?” Niko asks from the other side of the bathroom door. I leave the water running so he fucks off. But he knocks on the door and says, “Don’t do anything stupid, kid.”

I almost laugh.

Almost—a word that can be used for the majority of the events in my life.

Ialmostdidn’t get sentenced for a crime I didn’t commit.

Ialmostgot into college.

Ialmostdied.

I hate that fucking word. It only exists to highlight how close a person gets to everything they need. Hope and almost go hand in hand. Years of hope resulted in almost getting freedom. The bars aren’t there, the noise has disappeared, yet I’m still not free. I’malmostfree.

I continue lying like it will trick me into believing it too. “Nothing stupid,” I agree. “I’ve got a shift in half an hour. I’ll see you next month.”

He acquiesces, and I wait until he makes the short walk from the bathroom to the front door. The walls are thin as fuck, so thin that I can hear him lock the door behind him. I stay in the bathroom and wash my face with ice-cold water until my cheeks are numb.

The silence is the biggest mindfuck. I haven’t had silence since I was seventeen. There has always been noise—someone screaming as they wipe their shit on the walls, guards’ boots pacing while they do their checks, a CO being a condescending prick because they don’t have any real authority in life.

Now, it’s just silent.

Nothing other than my own thoughts.

My alarm blares from the living room, which is exactly three steps away, and I count out each annoying repetition of the trill sound before I leave the bathroom. My steps are robotic, and I pick up my keys, phone, and a hoodie before leaving the apartment. The edges of the hallway are littered with dust, junk mail, anything that has fallen off the bottom of people’s shoes, leaving a clear line that everyone has walked through because no one looks at the trash in this shithole, which is why none of us make eye contact as I walk out of the apartment.

Moving somewhere no one knows me was supposed to offer a chance at a life. But I can’t escape the shit in my head. The next eight hours will be filled with ghosts.

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