Day 73. The sadness and death bleed from my pores in here. The tears of angels and prison tattoos, the bitter hatred laugh of devils and the hours that absorb me. All the love and air, the taste of wind and sun, the mere fire of a gas stove, a 3 a.m. hour of restlessness in front of a window that opens to a streetlight… All of this is a dream now, all of this in my head, my stomach sore from emptiness, my body cold beneath a sorry wool blanket and an over-bleached sheet—the loss of shadows in this cell, the loss of grace...the love for the written word and the sun-torn highways flush with mountains and small stations, a cup of hot coffee next to my typewriter, the feeling of life warm down my arms, is no longer real to me. It’s a grainy film, a mirror I use for my own self-image, and it keeps me going in here. It keeps my blood warm in a sea of cold, controlled environment, a place where autonomy and expression are simply not possible on an outward plane. A place where your own death is welcomed hungrily, because it would be a diversion from the horrible nothing. My life in here is a new, sick dream. I exist by minutes in this cell, by dark hours of uniform garbage. It’s pushing 9:30 p.m. and we’re celled in for the night...Know that I write this with a gun to my head, while every 15 minutes the hacks walk by and make their count, while the lights of the cities across the States are lit and waiting for spring to burn off to summer...what I wouldn’t give to feel my bare feet in the grass, my hands upon warm dirt. I sit in this concrete box freezing. The pencil moves across the page while outside my shadow looks around for its body.

The scotch tasted off. He wasn’t sure why, precisely. It looked alright, smelled fine, but it just wasn’t savory like he was accustomed to. Maybe he shouldn’t have bought it where he did. You could go the cheap on a lot of things, but liquor sure wasn’t one of them.

And a lot of things were cheaper that way these days, now that he thought about it. Not just money cheap but more than that. True character building was dead, now people just conformed to bad tropes and ideals that were shit to begin with. The Thugs, fighting for only God knew what. The Goths, the black-obsessed punks, living in rich suburbia and whining about how horrible it was to have to do chores. Even the bloody Overachievers, straining against the leash to try and be the best only to drown in anxiety issues and overdose on caffeine supplements.

“And it’s reflected in the lit,” he snarled. “All in the lit, man. All the popular stuff’s crap, utter crap, Veronica. They don’t have the words anymore, not like they used to. They don’t love the words like they did."

He turned his head, swirling amber in his glass, and looked at her picture. She smiled serenely like they did in old black and white flicks, her hair done up in a messy bun. Now that was the kind of pretty he longed for. None of this plastic, none of this Photoshop bull. His classy lady could have outdone them all with a flick of her wrist and a coy little smile. She could have done it fresh out of bed, no makeup on her face, her lips parted in a girlish yawn.

“Here’s to you, sweetheart,” he said, raising his glass. “A real dame, you were, the best of them. My God, I miss you.”

Someone knocked on his door. He grunted admittance, and the nurse scurried in, a haggard looking thing with an eye only for her watch.

“And a bright morning to you, Mr. Henderson!” She exclaimed. Far too chipper. Far too false. “I’m here with your pills. You remember…”

“I can handle it,” he snapped, glaring. “I’m old, not invalid.”

She pursed her lips. “It’s very important you take them-“

“Yeah, yeah. Proper order. Not all at once.”

Her eyes, caked unpleasantly with mascara, veered towards the scotch.

“And not with alcohol,” he supplied. “Now get out of here before I throw it at you.”

“You could do to be a little nicer, Mr. Henderson. It wouldn’t kill you.”

“I’ll be nicer when you people decide to just give me all of them. I take the rest just fine. You wouldn’t have to bother me every day if you’d just hand ’em over.”

The girl rolled her eyes. Young thing, probably fresh out of college. Her name-tag told him her name was Charlotte, and he tried to remember if he should have known that or not. “These are a more controlled substance that-“

“Look, I know.” His glower could have made puppies piss themselves, he bet. “You got better things to do, kid. Skedaddle and leave me in peace.”

Charlotte got that mean look about her, that look that says when someone’s about to spit venom. “You’d be less alone if you weren’t so bitter, Henderson.”

Reprimand given, she turned on her heel and wheeled her cart out, slamming the door behind her. He resisted the urge to shout something insulting. He may have been crotchety, but he had some measure of decency towards a lady.

“Doesn’t deserve that title though,” he muttered.

Jacob Henderson scowled at the pills, scowled out the window, and then felt tears begin to prick his eyes as the anger faltered.

“I never thought I’d be alone like this, Veronica,” he whispered. “Not like this. I thought our kids would have kids, you know? But John, your John, that boy’s always been a world of trouble. Couldn’t break him of it. Got all caught up with the law and he’s behind bars. Can you believe that? Behind bars, V.”

A tear trickled and wobbled before dipping into the valleys below his eyes. “And Alyssa, she’s always had something to prove. She’s all caught up in business. Got some big fancy house, dating some pretty-boy model. I’m proud of her, yeah, sure. But does she visit? No, of course not. I could forgive that if she’d write me. I even figured out how to use a damn email, got myself a computer, but she can’t even-“

Jacob choked. His fingers gripped the glass harder as he leaned forward, the sob alive in his throat. “The world’s moved on, V. It’s got no place for this old writer anymore. I got nobody. No family. I’m in this rotten hole of a retirement home and all these geezers are just sitting here waiting to die. Waiting to move on.”

Wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, he stood, setting the scotch on the counter. “You know I never was a coward, baby. You know that. I’ve been a brave man, all my life.”

Raising fingers filled with rheumatoid, he turned the deadbolt on his door and heard it click. He trailed his hands down to the second lock, hesitated, and then set that as well. As he did the chain, he faltered, pressing his forehead to the peephole and weeping openly.

“I’m so alone here. That girl, damn her, she’s right, but it ain’t that simple. I could have taken any other thing, but not this. Why did you have to go before me, V? You were my rock, my inspiration. I can’t travel, I can’t leave. It’s prison here, only the food is worse and the stink is like seeping death. And the words, they won’t come to me. Even the words have left me, left me a dry husk. I’ve been used and burned up and there’s nobody left to put the fuel in my fire.”

Moments passed. He breathed in and out, steeling himself. Eventually he left the support of the door and turned. He opened his medicine cabinet and grabbed a bottle indiscriminately. Emptying the lot onto the counter, he refilled his glass of cheap scotch and stared down at the pile of tiny white dots.

“V, baby. I don’t want you to watch this, but I never kept what I did hidden from you. I’ve always been brave enough to let you see the kind of man I really was.”

His voice broke as he looked up to her smiling portrait. Claw-like, he picked up the drink and palmed a handful of the pills.

“Forgive me, sweetheart. I just can’t take this alone anymore.”

And he swallowed them down.

Laying in my bed listening to the metal pouring from my phone I have a sudden thought cross my mind; am I alone?? Am I secluded in my thoughts and feelings or are others actually walking with me down the same path. A feeling that was uncontrollable washed over my entire body an shook me to my core,uncertainty. The crying never seemed to stop, the headaches were relentless, and the heartache was all the more grueling. The truth won't necessarily hit me in the face, but with time, I will hopefully know if I'm in true darkness or just the gray matter of life and emotions.