Chapter Text
When I look at you, I see eyes of innocence: grace.
Synonymously, you move, like me and in a way, it makes me feel like I understand you.
The potential; my world; you; my obsession: pretty.
I’m being totally honest with you, and I have no reason why I am head over heels, dangling my feet, tingling—watching at the sensation of water emotionlessly wrapping its glory across shown skin.
The shimmer of the glittery contrast—like a prism would be only enough to settle.
The water—running. The silence. Daybreak. My thoughts.
That’s what YOU feel like.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Some days I write. Others I speak. Jail was like waiting to breathe…
----------------------------------------------------------
(Journal Entry #9)
I’m up early, jotting thoughts at piece of paper after piece of paper; it never made sense. It was as if I spoke in incomplete sentences; or maybe I meant to. Either way, I wouldn’t exactly call it poetry. It was bad. I was bad. I softened a pot of coffee, sliding it in between mitts of color, hoping it would cool down faster than it actually-would. I wasn’t very hungry, but I need this. I left my journal on the counter, staring back at an on-lit burner, transferring the brew into a morning cup. My arms felt like Jello, my neck: sore. I was tired. My desk was scattered of closed billing statements, a plethora of unopened mail, trinkets, pictures of – us, a bottle of scotch to my right, and DNA evidence plastered at every nook and cranny. The worktable’s wood: overcoated; the brass, shiny – a metal hardly worth its name. boldly, it stared back as my reflection folds over. The room was cold: dim. I hated the air, how muggy it was, but it fit the mood.
People ask; they wonder: DID YOU DO IT?
I would tell them that I didn’t. – but if I did do it.
I’D – LIE.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Quickly, I close my journal, shimmying past a group of people; the press, searching for serenity. The trial of the century was underway, and unfortunately for me, I am on trial for my life. It didn’t matter how many times I screamed at the top of my lungs that I didn’t kill her, and if somehow, I had, I didn’t remember it. So, that means I’m innocent right. No? Yes. – Yes. I really am telling the truth here, and if it wasn’t for YOUR her beautiful smile, I wouldn’t even be here right now. I’ve passed up (just this week) on three life threatening events. When I sleep, I see YOU – or – well – her. (I’m not much of a writer and I am not exactly sure who or what I should be sharing my thoughts to) – (or should I say with…). Nothing mattered. I neglected myself of food. Daily; and when I sleep – that night replays. The night we called it quits: your eyes: stoic. It was as if your frigid breathing stopped amid thin air, eluding me of any real reaction. But in your soul, a part of you now belonged to me. That much I just knew. Your hands were shaky. ‘HER hands were – shaky.’ The way you moved with emotionless eyes, that were (just earlier) seconds away from crying. I feel you. ‘She feels – me.’ (or at least I think she does). You said you were leaving, and you she told me to go back to college, or well—something along the lines of that. I laughed because I pictured the end of the 21 Jump Street movie (she made me watch) when Ice Cube’s character shouts “You two sons of bitches are going to college!” Shortly after, I then walked away like we’d gotten divorced that day, and as for school; I’d like to go back. Near future. No. Probably not. Jail is pretty-bad. Okay, very bad. It’s the moments like this ‘in mourning’ when I miss Claire the most. It doesn’t take long, not long at all, and I remember her affection for The FBI’s golden boy, Ryan Hardy. That guy doesn’t like me, and for some reason, I’m not okay with it.
Her scent was always so calming to me, and I loved her well maintained motherly hair. And Claire loved our son like no other.
Solidarity and confinement were two of my favorite words but being on the receiving end of their burden—is the word scorn.
That night she loved me; like it was for ‘the road.’ Her lips felt - lush. ‘The sounds you made for me’. I wanted to fall in love all over again, save our marriage. She wanted nothing but –him: Ryan Hardy. I guess it was the heroism he displayed in his talk. Maybe, his winning smile. Certainly, he is a good-looking fella’ he is, but I never took him for Claire’s type. Oh, how the years have changed. And how my incompetence changed them.
I knew soon Hardy would be here to interrogate answers out of me. Answers I didn’t have. The truth was I have no clue what happened with Claire past she escaped, however the FBI is welcome to any false leads (especially self-generated thoughts by insistent thinking) one could offer. I calmly waited. Hour’s passed, then minutes. He showed, and out of the corner of my eyes, there was her. YOU.
The room felt chilly, my heart raced, and this golden boy cop is staring at me like I’d made a mistake, and I had. Showing emotion was always seen as a weakness where I grew up, and I gave him – something. (Actually, he was pretty. Could you blame me). Claire is staring at me with eyes of water, still – like a statue, reminding me of just who I really am, as I remind myself this is just a simple illusion. “You killed your family, Joe!” Claire haunted. Her eyes focused. I remained… Still.
“Can I help you with something?” I ask, watching Hardy circle me, teetering buttons against a velvety fabric he wore often enough, fisting his free hand in to anger, rushing me. He almost made contact. I rise to my knees as far as chains and shackles would allow, looking back shallowly. “Nope.” He responded (Ryan), pulling me closer with force, staring eye to eye, as you she watches diligently with a sense of urgency that spelled hidden doom: a sacred silence you’d never say. (The other side of a cell never felt so empty). “You sick bastard; where is she?” I chuckle, resting my legs in defeat as I could not break free. I smiled. “I honestly have no idea what the twins may have done with my wife.” Ryan’s eyes cut, “Ex wife.” I smirk out loud. “Whatever.” I managed with confidence. Hardy smiled back sarcastically. He’s growing impatient. Claire is looking at me with eyes that satisfy my fantasies. My grandiosity. Delusion. You sing to me; he’s seconds from screaming, and I am innocent of all charges. Current charges. I love the song. “I honestly have no clue. Ummm. What are you on about?” I ask this in hopes Ryan Hardy will know that this time I am telling the truth. Usually, he does. He hates how dangerously close I’d like to get when I am lying. But this time, I was quiet: fair.
(I’m guilty of sentimentality in the tenth degree…. Claire said she loved that about me. All of it).
And there is recognition. He sees it. “You wouldn’t order that kill, would you?” I go back and forth. “Who did?” He asked, curling his hands against my forearms, asserting the need to be heard. A part of me liked when this guy did this. It reminded me of – me. “No.” I wouldn’t. I responded, licking my lips, chuckling: smirking. “Then who?” Ryan panicked, while remaining housed. “Not sure. But I will be making a point in finding out.” (That part I meant. Things weren’t supposed to go this way. A heist gone wrong. Yeah. I should be here for like dozens of other murders, and you’ll always get caught, but my own wife, no…. My trial, stacked by a nobody - “dream team” - of rich lawyers, and a charge they pinned on me for a push on death penalty). His grip tightened, and a pair of gritted teeth garnished any idealism of fear that may have traveled the body of the former FBI agent. “I honestly have no answers to give you.” I said this with a simple tone, nodding my head playfully, gently looking up at him. “Very well,” Ryan said. There was a slight pout in those eyes. Claire did always like an innocent goofy kind of ‘honest’ man. “Told you,” I taunted the dissatisfaction from the face of Ryan Hardy with only two words. I’m eyeballing; and I enjoyed watching slivers of hope swim away from cerulean, blue with each blink of comprehension he made. They say ‘the’ eyes are a gateway to the soul, and that much I believe because with one look, I knew he was a cop: a Bruce Wayne relic. Ryan signed for the guards to let open twin doors. They did. He left and once again I was alone. I begin to think in silence about the trial. My lawyer, a man – well one of them: a man of dishonestly: a born winner, egotist, elitist, eloquent. I hired three of them. They were all the same. That was good for me. Although, it wouldn’t matter. I would break out again, just like the last time. Ryan’s eyes have always looked the same as when we first met: scared & overly loyal; (and they will again look like that within a few short days).
(Journal Entry #10)
“The world doesn’t just stop at one man’s feet.”
. . . BULLSHIT!
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I wake up at the sound of abundance: annoyance. Yelling could be heard, scurrying. Tomorrow was “THE DAY” (my escape), I wish it were today – but. . . I see Claire, briefly, I begin squinting my eyes free of the view. Quickly. I follow orders, led by head nobs and snobbish remarks. These clowns who guarded this place knew exactly who I was. My name and face made headlines: the news. I was the smartest person in the room, and it came without practice. I knew I’d be seeing Ryan Hardy soon; again? (It’s almost like I’d asked myself). The air smelled vulgar this morning, non-typical: different. I was already over it. My stomach curled, growling in circles. One of the lights cascading began to dim, flickering. This place was an outdated joke, bare, but Claire wanted me here, suffering. She always did. She always did things in ways that could be seen from different angles. I began though – (to think to myself deeply), insinuating my past: investigating it. I found nothing. But I did find a gem or two from the good ole’ days.
(Flashback:)
“Fuck you Joe,” You joked, staring back at me with emotionless eyes, lying to yourself once again, me and whoever you need to. Much like - ME - you truly are, Claire, aren’t you? Eyes roll at me, following my movements like they were actually threatening. They weren’t, and you know that. You know what I want to do. You know I can’t resist the way you move away from me. You chuckle defeatedly. “You’re insane, the furthest thing from my mind, and the only thing I want from you is basking in the sting and aguish cry of your capture; your death, and hopefully a finalized divorce and full custody of MY child.” That last line was delivered with more sarcasm than a grungy comedy film. I smirked, unphased. Your hips sway. You’re teasing. Oh, how bold you can be, tempting a man like – me. You know (with pleasure) that I only admire it: this action. (It’s a weakness of mine). I lean closer, sliding my hand past drapes dangling - messily, cornering YOU against a cold window, webbed with frost. I ball my fist; you know I could never hit -. “You gonna’ hit me?” You taunt. I smirk in defeat, curling my lips, impersonating your stance. Slowly, I step forward. (Our feet match/adjacent to one another). “Of course -- not—just struggling against a more formidable composure. One that looks a bit scarier.” Your hands ready against my chest, pushing me back even though we both know that I’m not going to stop. “Joe stop!” ‘I never recalled those words being spoken before – in the past – the past in which you were in love with me.’ I sigh, battling my thoughts. “No.” I uttered, pressing wrists against dry wall. You writhed; but only a bit. “C’mon, Claire, I think we both know you’ll agree with me sooner or later.” ‘As if..” I could see the words trailing unopened lips, folding into a silent frown. Eyes furrowed in ferocity; and mine widened. All I could muster on was the word: why?. . You smirked at my badly stated joke, curling your fingers defensively, potting your lips against mine, willingly. In your mind what happens next may protect your son, (your – son - I’d never hurt). You huffed in frustration, digging nails from my chest, trailing them towards my forearms; you know exactly what I want: YOU. You know this (not because) I want to fuck you right now. No! You know this because it doesn’t take a genius to see you are the perfect type of woman for a ‘mother fucker’ like – me.
------------------------------------------------------------
(Journal Entry #11)
“Joe we’re over—forever. Why won’t you understand that.” I did, unfortunately. ---
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
(Flashback End):
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
The last thing I remembered was the carpet: tan & brown: dim lights, an all-black cracked television case, and an A/C that remained on. Constantly. This was a place I chose to belong only when things were – hot. I was on the run, and even though I’m stuck here (jail), I’m still on-the-run. (at least in my mind). . A voice could be heard, and Ryan Hardy was staring at me up and down wearing a suit he’d hadn’t changed from. His silence was anger. His contemplations were – void, a proposition. Perhaps? I only wondered. He knows. He knows that I know. Everything.
“How’d you like a few days away from this place?” Oh, it sounds like movies. I smile, scratching at the base of my elbow, enjoying the reach without hand cuffs on. (Hardy removed them). “What about the trial of the century?” I beg with a winner’s grin. “It can wait. No plea… Except for mine.” Awe. Ryan said this as if he were attempting to manipulate me. He played coy – the innocent/victim role. I smile wide. “The what’s really in it for me?” I question, quirking a brow, cocking my head, closer towards my body, nearly crouching, mimicking the adoring act of Hardy’s. He noticed. I smile again. He huffed, raising his shoulders. “Look, either help me out or you choose the hand cuffs and watching me take down this city’s crime from the sidelines like a god damn cheerleader.” ‘It’s almost like he cares.’ I stared off, discarded and distantly with yet again another smirk. It’s like I could just feel the guy. I folded my arms; that felt nice. He’s rambling (he usually doesn’t do that—he’s desperate). “SURE..” I respond, cutting his words short. Hardy was taken back. (sort of). The moment now quiet. “Okay.” Finally, he said. I put on my best “you’re welcome” look, remaining – innocent like: sheepish. I blushed. “The twins are at a place only I know of—“ Ryan interjects. “I don’t care. A boy’s life is at stake. He’s protective custody. Deals aren’t made. –” But they are. They’d cut a deal for this. There is too much at stake. Although, it doesn’t matter; every wicked man answers his ways. Mine were coming—but I was going to escape anyways. This only makes my plans even easier. The FBI is looney if they believe that freeing me is worth the price of an “all-knowing child.” I joke. He’s still babbling (Ryan) and I feel my stomach turn. The press would be rioting. Probably. This was a trick: a lie. I say that outright & candidly. Hardy answers with a face that swore he’d wished I were right. Either way, what’s an adventure. “I should be leaving.” He paused, stumbling on words. I chuckled. I could feel excitement—below. It was sexual, but not sexual: an arousal, a rush, pure – creation. I couldn’t exactly pinpoint it, but it felt wholesome: delusional.
Ryan left, leaving me idle and wasted. My thoughts were unkempt. Layered. I was again lost in the wake of her; beautiful face, reeling. I lean back thinking to myself deeply. “The world doesn’t just stop at one man’s feet.” I think this through. It meant something to me.
------------------------------------------------------------------
(Journal Entry #12)
Your her ‘death’ allowed me to do what I had to do.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------