(To Connor McManus)
He could never decide if the mornings came too soon or not soon enough.
On the one hand, at night he was in his bed, and it hadn�t take him more than a day or two to teach his cellmate that the bed was HIS space, and not to be invaded. At night, he could retreat into the tiny invisible fortress and be secure. He didn�t have to worry about defending himself with fists or words. He didn�t have to watch his back. He could let his guard down for a few hours.
On the other hand, at night he let his guard down. Which let all his thoughts and heartache creep back in. Hours with nothing to do but think, unless he managed to sleep. Oh, but then he might dream...
He�d always been thin and muscular, but the last eight months had burned him down to a tense, trembling wiriness. There was no flesh left on him at all, just pale skin stretched to the breaking point over bone. He startled himself whenever he passed his reflection- who was that nervous, white-faced man with cheekbones jutting through the skin like knives and eyes of blue fire taking up half his skull?
He knew that he had been Connor McManus once, but he didn�t have any certainty that that was still his name. None at all.
He hurt; he hurt all over. There was the endless ache of hunger in his stomach- hard to eat much when you had to watch your back the whole meal, and fight to keep your seat at the table more often than not. The constant battering in his skull- three or four hours of sleep per night for eight months would do funny things to man�s brain. He swore he�d seen angels swooping down over the courtyard some afternoons, and hellhounds running down the cellblocks other evenings. And of course there were the constantly shifting patterns of cuts and bruises from the daily fighting.
He wasn�t sure why he had to prove himself all over again almost every single day; other prisoners seemed to find a place and settle there after a month or so. Something about him, personally, drove the other men mad, the new boys as well as the old-timers. And so he had to fight someone or other almost every blessed day, just to keep his head above water and his mind and body his own.
He knew with chilly certainty that he couldn�t keep it up forever. Not even much longer, maybe. But he�d hold out as long as he physically could; not only for himself, but for his brother.
They�d put Murphy in another cell block, and all he�d seen of his twin in eight months were stolen glimpses across the courtyard. From those he�d pieced together an idea that he clung to with an intensity that reeked of desperation: that Murphy was holding on as well as he was, being burned down to a sliver but continuing to fight. Holding on to their purpose, their conviction, their rage. As long as he could make himself believe that Murphy was still fighting, he could find the will to soldier on. Somehow.
He talked to his brother at night, inside his head. Not out loud, because the last thing he needed was something else to set his cellmate off, but silently. They�d always been able to communicate without words- a glance, a feather-light touch, a significant breath- and he had almost convinced himself over these last eight months that Murphy could hear his late-night mental ramblings. Almost.
Mostly, he made promises. He reminded his twin of what exactly they had to live for, why they had to survive this place and make it back outside again. He spun wild and twisted revenge scenarios in his fevered mind and tried to send them to his brother on a wave of pure will.
They would live, and they would get out of there, and they would have their revenge. They would track down Smecker, whatever hole the backstabbing son of a bitch had slunk off to, and they would force-feed him his own liver. With a side of potatoes and a bottle of whiskey, as they outlined each and every hellish day in they�d endured since he sold them out.
When he closed his eyes to steal his fractured hours of sleep at night, he could see it, replayed in agonizing slow motion. The three of them jumping out of the van- on Smecker�s signal! They�d trusted him!- and heading into the courtroom, bypassing the metal detectors, bursting into the courtroom on fire with holy fervor...
...only to be met with half the SWAT teams in Boston aiming semiautomatics down their throats.
He�d toss and turn, punch his pillow, curse and cry under his breath, remembering Smecker smirking at them from up in the balcony as he and Murphy had stood there like stunned cattle, disarmed without resistance. Their father had fought back, like the old lion he was, screaming and ranting and calling on God for justice until they finally brought him down.
In one of the numerous prison transfers between arrest and trial- couldn�t let �the Saints� hold still for too long or someone might spring them, went the Boston PD�s logic- there�d been �an altercation,� and an officer�s weapon had �accidentally discharged.� The twins weren�t permitted to travel from their separate jails to see their father buried, not even in chains. Something else Connor held Smecker personally responsible for. Something else to be avenged.
He�d been burning hate and anger for eight months. It was the fuel letting him survive in this place, the anchor that held him in himself since everything else he was had been taken away. Murphy, the presence he�d balanced himself against and supported in return for his entire life, had been ripped from his side. He�d have lost himself, gone mad six times over at least, if he hadn�t had his hate and vengeance to center on. He brooded over it lovingly, like a mother over her baby, encouraging it to flourish and grow.
But now, more and more often, he felt like he was running out of fuel for that as well. He could feel himself fading away, hollowing out. It took time and effort and scratching the wounds of memory raw to summon up the warmth of rage.
He was terrified of what would happen if he lost it.
He saw flickers of motion at the edge of his vision, out in the corridor. He clenched his eyes shut as tightly as he could, pressing his fists against them. Those weren�t dogs of hell running past the cell door, it was his own exhausted and fevered mind, playing tricks on him...the Lord was his shepherd, he need fear no evil...
He had to hold on. Somehow. Had to stoke the fire, hold on to himself.
�For Da,� he mumbled. �For Murphy.�
He summoned up their faces from his memory and clung to them. Then he reached for a third face, one he thought of every night and swathed in a bloody red haze.
�For you, Smecker,� he whispered lovingly. �I won�t fall apart. I�ll hold together just for you.� The anger was burning again, the hatred. He smiled, fists still pressed so tightly against his eyes that he saw stars. �I�ll live, and I�ll get out of here, and I�ll come looking for you. We will, me and Murphy together.� He felt his face twisting into a feral, vicious grin, the kind that would give a sane and decent man nightmares. �And when we find you, oh, Smecker, my dear friend, you�re going to wish we�d shot you in the back that day in the church. You�re going to wish Yakavetta�s men had blown you away, or you were never even born...�
�Shut the fuck up,� growled his cellmate from the other bunk. �Fuckin� Irish loon, talkin� to your fuckin� self when normal people are sleeping...�
Connor rolled over on his side and faced the wall, falling silent. But he kept talking in his mind.
There was a very real chance he was going mad. He knew that. But he and Murphy were God�s chosen, weren�t they? Hadn�t they received a message personally, from up on high? Surely God wouldn�t let His chosen ones hollow out and die crazy and alone in prison. No, there had to be a miracle coming. There just had to be...
Because we�ll be shepherds one more time, you�ll see, Smecker. Only we�re not going to make it clean and proper this time, not for you. No quick double-tap to the head, oh no, you�re too special for that...we�ll make you beg to be released to your god, if you even have one, you miserable traitorous fuck...
He was trembling all over with righteousness and anger and ecstasy as he fell asleep.
Feedback is like oxygen.
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