Page 69 of Come Back To Me

My teeth bite down as he stands over me. The waves of agony feel like blades have reached the bone in my leg. I huff out a breath I didn’t realise I was holding before I suck for more air, desperately trying to breathe my way through the pain. I pull it in through my nose and let it out through my mouth when he hits me again. “Feel better?” I ask.

My smart mouth earns me another whack to the back of my leg. This time, my breathing has quickened, adrenaline suddenly overflowing in my veins. “Take off the motherfucking cut,” he tells me again.

I steady myself, still knelt to the floor. “No,” I laugh. I know I’ll have to, but every fibre of my being really doesn’t fucking want to. This is their way of stripping me of who I am.

Taking it off me was inevitable.

His heavy hands grab for my collar, and he pulls me to my feet. “I said, fucking, off!” He rips and pulls at me, jostling me about the tiny cell we occupy. Pulling it off my weak arm first, the prick manages to wrestle the leather off my back.

Now I get why he went for my arm.

With our struggle, the pain has started burning brighter. White hot flames so raw, start flickering in my vision. I bite the inside of my mouth to give me something else to focus on. When I start tasting copper, the distraction starts.

I watch on as the officer inspects my cut in his hands. He stows away his baton as he speaks. “Appears to have some dirt on it.” He brings my pride to his mouth, then he spits on the flash across the front.

Prick.

He laughs as my face contorts, then strides to the door, victorious. He never once looks back. The door simply closes, the heavy sound of it being locked behind him, echoing down the corridor.

I’m not sure how long I stand there for. It’s only when I see a red light on the camera start flashing in the corner of my eye, do I move to sit on the bed. I try not to show my discomfort as I roll to my back, one side of my body completely numb.

The hell they’re going to put me through will be nothing compared to what will happen inside if I don’t sit down with The Saint as soon as I arrive.

Three days ago

Once I’d spotted the tattoo on the man I killed, and he’d disclosed he’d been released with instructions, I knew I needed someone on the inside.

I never expected it to be me.

Mollie unexpectedly coming back was a blessing and also a curse. I couldn’t stop the inevitable, so I took a chance and asked her to defend me, making sure things were in place for those I love. Am I worried it’s a murder charge? Something less serious would have been ideal, but no point hiding from it. What other choice do I have? Ripper members we have currently residing in prison are all so spread out, it’s just pure bad fucking luck they’renot where I needed them.

She didn’t want to get involved, but Mollie was never going to see me go down for this. We have history.

Police transferred me to His Majesty’s Prison this morning; at the end of their allotted time to hold me in custody. Now I wait until my hearing on Monday.

Stood over the toilet, I lean my head against the wall as I struggle to piss, courtesy of the welcome party I received. Looking down, the sprays I manage to pass are discoloured. This isn’t good. My jaw also aches and my shoulder’s on fire.

The bleakness suddenly seems so broad.

After I was jumped, I laid on the floor for ten minutes before I was able to get myself up. No one helped me, and I didn’t expect them to. But on my own, inside my own head… I couldn’t hide from it.

It’s a bitter irony that in order to survive what’s to come, I’ll have to unleash that part of me that used to consume me. That anger and violence that put me in here, I’m going to need it.

When I gingerly move back to my bed, I think of Rocco, then of Jack. Stupidly, I then close my eyes and think of Mads. This is going to hurt her; the not knowing what the hell is happening. Telling her about a potential murder charge was never an option though.

I don’t want to fucking be here. Now that I am, it might as well fall on me to find who’s sending threats. If I can survive until Monday when I go to my plea hearing, I’ll stand a chance. I just need to sit down with The Saint fucking sharpish.

Forty-six hours in police custody was rough, but compared to life in here, it was a walk in the park. Anyone who says otherwise is either dumb or hasn’t experienced it. It’s numbing. Soul destroying.

Hell.

It’s the mind that suffocates your soul.

Staring at these blank walls, I stupidly allow myself to imagine the scenario of Mollienotactually being able to save me from this place. All I can do is hope that this time history will actually fucking repeat itself, and for once in my life I’ll get a win.

A life without Mads. Or my kid. Or my club… Mollie’s good, but I’ll need her to be a fucking magician if I want to go home.

When I wake on Sunday morning, the tips of my fingers are numb. I can’t tell how long I slept for—or if I even properly slept at all. All I know is there was one face I held onto. One image that reminded me of why I’m not already dead.

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