The Bars That Hold Us

by Shelly Pratt

  A strangled, tortured cry escapes her lips, severing our connection. I’m confused, not sure what’s gone wrong. I try to find her face in the dark, but all I can see are a river of tears, her sadness drowning out her sweet face.

  I want to comfort her, love her, but the morning wake-up bell of the prison shatters that dream into a thousand, tiny, unmemorable pieces. The raging hard-on is still there, tormenting me of a reality I can no longer have.

  I can dream about Mercy Cole all I like, but nothing will change the fact that she and I will never be.

  Her sadness bothers me. Not just in the dream, but when we’re together, too. For weeks we’ve been left alone with only each other for company, although she rarely lets pieces of the real her out. Everything she is can be found under lock and key. The snippets of herself she accidently allows to slip free are quickly swept up and hidden away again. I want to break through her barriers like a sledgehammer, but I think I’d have an easier time breaking out of jail.

  I swing my legs down from the bunk, ready to hop down and brush my teeth and wash my face before breakfast. I’m startled by the arrival of the woman who has started to invade my dreams.

  ‘Good morning,’ I greet her.

  ‘Morning.’ She seems happy almost. I wonder, jealously, who has made her feel this way. I wish it were me, but she seems to have arrived already in her good mood. Her dark hair is swept high up on her head, making her cheekbones seem more severe—her jaw more prominent. I want to kiss it, but it’s wrong to even think about it.

  If the illusion of closeness wasn’t marred by heavy steel bars, I’d almost think we were in our own bedroom, greeting each other as lovers do before they start their morning rituals.

  I eye her up, before stepping closer to the bars. She doesn’t take a step back like I was expecting her to. Instead, she comes closer, like she’s got a secret to share but doesn’t want the other two hundred plus inmates on F Block to hear about it.

  ‘Are you ready to get going?’

  ‘No breakfast today?’

  ‘Sure, we’re going to pick it up from the kitchen on the way through.’

  ‘Okay, well, I might need a human minute before you go dragging me off to the mines.’

  ‘Oh,’ she blushes. ‘Well, why don’t you do what you need to do and, I ah, I’ll be back in five. I can get your breakfast organized and take it on to the library before I come back for you.’

  ‘Alright, I’ll be ready.’

  She nods and quickly heads off in the direction of the kitchen. I take a piss and change into fresh sweats, before brushing my teeth and running my fingers through my short hair. While I’m waiting for her to return, I knock out some push-ups. Her steel-capped boots in front of me are the only thing that alerts me to her return. The noise in the rest of the cells has cranked up to an excitable level, which is normal right before meal times.

  ‘You ready?’

  ‘Yep.’

  She sets me free from my cage, ready to take me to my day job of painting walls and perving on her ass. A couple of months ago, I wouldn’t have known that I’d find moments where I actually start to like what I’m doing while on the inside.

  We walk casually, knowing time is going nowhere. The fumes from the library greet us as Mercy buzzes us through the now familiar doors.

  ‘Pew! We’re going to get high if we don’t open some of these windows,’ she gasps.

  ‘Are you kidding, it’s like six degrees out.’

  ‘Suck it up, tough guy. I’d rather the chill than paint fumes.’ She starts to fling open several of the windows, the slight breeze brining a little of the morning air with it.

  ‘Fine, but if I get cold, I’m pinching that big-ass parker you’re wearing.’

  She grins—the first I’ve ever seen on her. And then, as if she catches herself, she turns it off, just like that. I want to ask her what makes her that way, but I know if I say a single word, I risk shutting her out for good. I don’t want that. I want her to open up to me. I think for now, a distraction is in order.

  ‘Shall we eat breakfast first?’ I say, motioning towards the two trays that are sitting untouched on the desk.

  ‘Yes, lets. I might make some of that bootleg coffee first, though.’

  While I watch her body retreat into the kitchenette, I start in on my food tray. The cooks must have bought some baked beans for the rations store on special because we’ve had them every day this week. I don’t care. I’m hungry and my stomach doesn’t mind what it eats to fill the gap.

  I eat the cold, dry bit of toast with it before polishing off the oatmeal, milk and fruit. I’m two mouthfuls away from finishing when Mercy returns with two steaming mugs of coffee. She notices my nearly empty plate.

  ‘Still hungry?’

  ‘I’m always hungry in here. Their portions are like airplane food.’

  ‘Can you keep a secret?’ Her pale blue eyes spark alive, like she’s just found a pot of gold or something.

  ‘I think it would be safe to say you can trust me.’

  ‘Come with me,’ she motions.

  I get up, intrigued. I follow her back to the kitchenette, which is so tiny – just enough space really for a sink and cupboard. She reaches under the sink, opening the doors. It’s hard not to focus on her ass, bent in the position she’s in. My male brain just about has a meltdown.

  ‘See? There are biscuits in here; lots and lots of biscuits. I think the old librarian must have been a bit of a squirrel, hoarding for the winter.’ She laughs and stands up, twirling around to allow me a look in. She doesn’t realize I’m so close and we come face to face with each other. Her hands reflexively come up on my chest, stopping her motion before her body meets with my own.

  I can feel her delicate fingers on the rock-hard muscles of my pecs, yet she doesn’t remove them straight away. Her breath catches in her throat and she swallows hastily. My heart continues to thud away under her gaze. Dark hair and pale blue eyes are a heady enough mixture within themselves, let alone having all of her thrust up in my personal space. I’m not complaining, but I’m a man who hasn’t had sex in over three years. I could come on command if she begged me nicely. My dream about her this morning isn’t helping either.

  Against all of my will, my hands find her narrow hips, holding her so that she doesn’t move away and break the spell just yet. She’s breathing hard — short, shallow gulps of air sucking in and out of her mouth. It’s more like panting, actually.

  Fire ignites inside of me and my dick springs to action. I hope like hell she doesn’t look down or she’s going to see the full effect she’s having on me.

  My eyes zero in on her lips, drawing towards them like a magnet. I’m pulled, closer and closer until I’m just a hair’s breadth away from them. I want this to be like my dream. I want to kiss her in the same way. But in my dream, I wasn’t wearing green prison garb and she wasn’t supposed to maintain a professional distance between us at all costs.

  My right hand slips from her waist, desperate now to touch even more of her. My rough fingers find her cheek, my thumb moving up her chin towards those lips of hers. She doesn’t move, so I trail-blaze a path of discovery towards her open mouth. I rub her bottom lip with my thumb, intoxicated by the lack of air between us. She’s sucked it all away and I’m drunk on Co2.

  She sways towards me ever so slightly, almost inviting me to taste her. I want to—desperately. I lick my lips, ready to crush them against her own. Before I can, she breaks the beautiful spell that held us so enraptured by halting my actions with simple words.

  ‘What I meant to say is, there are biscuits in here if you’re still hungry.’

  ‘Oh, I’m hungry alright,’ I say huskily. I can’t help it, my head just wants to fall towards hers, close my eyes and get lost in the kiss I know is so near the surface.

  ‘Don’t,’ she whispers. She finally has the strength to push away from me. A single tear spills down her face as she brushes past me to head back inside the library. I
follow, because, where else am I going to go.

  She nurses the coffee in her hands, the tear forgotten and brushed away. Her breakfast remains untouched.

  ‘You should eat,’ I encourage.

  ‘I’m not hungry, you have it.’

  ‘I just lost my appetite.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘No, it’s me who should apologize.’

  ‘It’s fine.’

  ‘It’s not and you know it.’

  ‘Look, let’s just forget about it. The warden is swinging by later to check on your progress.’

  ‘I don’t want to forget about it.’

  ‘You need to.’

  ‘What happened to you, Mercy?’

  It’s the first time I’ve used her first name and she’s just as shocked as I am that I used it out loud. Her tiny gasp proves as much. I’ve just taken a very big leap off a cliff and there’s no going back. Fuck, she could ask to be removed from her guard duties if she reports sexual harassment from me. I couldn’t think of anything worse – being stuck here with some guy, day in and day out. I’m sure they wouldn’t ever think to give me coffee, or look at me the way she does without even intending to do so.

  She sighs, like a huge weight is burdening her tiny shoulders. I want to hug her, comfort her. I know from her putting distance between us that it’s the last thing she wants. She looks at me, her beautiful eyes hooded by long lashes that do nothing to hide a rawness that consumes her.

  ‘A little over a year ago my fiancé died. Daniel was a policeman. He was… shot, while on duty. We were supposed to get married that summer. He never made it.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mercy, I really am.’

  She stands up, grabbing the two breakfast trays. Hate, ferocious anger and stubbornness suddenly fill her pretty features. The happy woman I saw earlier is long gone. This one wants revenge, any way she can get it.

  ‘You know what? You should be, because it’s people like you who end up killing the good guys like Daniel!’

  Her retort is like a huge slap across the face. I’m gutted. No words can say how devastated I am—how wounded my pride is. I watch her as she storms off with the two trays, letting herself out of the library with her pass card.

  I hate to admit it to myself, but I fear I’ve just seen the last of Mercy.

  #11

  I storm out of the library, leaving Saxon completely on his own, knowing full well my job is on the line if he even so much as breathes wrong.

  I’m an idiot. A complete and utter idiot! For weeks now this tension between us has been brewing, despite the fact that I know and he knows it’s wrong. Not only that, the guilt that plagues me every time I go home is unbearable. Every single time Saxon invades my head I feel like I’m cheating on Daniel. It’s fucking insane!

  I dump the breakfast trays on the floor with a bang and pace back and forth in the corridor, wondering what the hell I’m doing here. It’s obvious I’m not competent to fulfill my duties right now. I should resign, but I already know that I won’t. He keeps me here. He has unknowingly made seeing him the highlight of my day. It hasn’t been much. Just a smile or a kind word – simple things that make me realize I’m still very much alive and very much want a man in my life again. Some day.

  The look on his face when those words spewed from my mouth is not something I can take back. He was hurt. More than hurt, actually. He looked devastated. Crushed.

  It’s hard to resolve the feelings I have for Daniel. He was taken, snatched, killed way before his time, before our time together was ever supposed to be over. We never got our dream wedding, the honeymoon, or the kids for that matter. It’s not like we fell out of love. It just ended. Abruptly. And when that happens, you find it even harder to move on. It’s different if someone tells you they no longer love you, or want to be with you. You harden your heart and move on. But when love ends so violently, it changes everything.

  I know Daniel wouldn’t want me moping around forever; he would want me to move on. But can I? It doesn’t seem fair, that I get to be happy and live my life with someone else – the life that we planned for with each other.

  Even if I can move on, how can I possibly think that any kind of relationship with Saxon is okay? It’s not. He killed someone. His jacket says manslaughter, which I know means there is no intent, but still… How can I like someone who has the ability to take another’s life in the first place?

  I pace like an animal, back and forth, frustration and the unknown rolling off me as I try to shake it off. I need to keep my head on straight and find a way forward. It’s not healthy to keep mourning Daniel forever, but who’s to say how long a person should grieve? While my mind wants to keep succumbing to the loss, my heart clearly has other ideas. It yearns to be touched; to feel something once more. I need to feel something again, and the only person who has made me feel anything since Daniel’s death is standing on the other side of the library door, doing time for a crime I can’t condone.

  Maybe it’s been that long since I’ve experienced the touch of another, that what I’m feeling is purely physical. I can’t deny that there is an overwhelming physical attraction to Saxon. He’s strong, fit and certainly easy on the eye. But it’s more than that, and I know it. When he looks into my eyes, he doesn’t just see the broken me. It’s like he’s reading a code that tells all my secrets, fears, hopes and wishes. I can see it in the way he responds to me. That’s not all, though. He saved me. He gave up his security among other prisoners to make sure that I wasn’t brutally raped by two of Silverwater’s most dangerous rapists. His actions that day showed me he genuinely cares, that he’s willing to put others before himself.

  My strong reaction to him almost kissing me is inexcusable. Guard or not, I didn’t need to resort to methods of degradation just to make him back off. I could have stated my position quite clearly and he would have given me the space I wanted, I know. Instead, I lashed out because he was getting too close to my defenses. If I let him in, there’s no turning back. The minute I give him access to my heart, I know that the finality of Daniel’s death will hit home. I’ll fall apart completely.

  But… I can’t leave things like this. I need to apologize, to explain. He may be a prisoner, a convicted felon, but he’s not without feeling, that much I can tell. I leave the trays on the floor and head back into the library. The door sucks back into a secure locked position behind me, the beep of the magnetic lock sounding as it does. The air is still, no telltale signs of my loud outburst. The tall book shelves block Saxon from view, but I know he’s here. The wet sticking sound of his paint roller gives him away. He’s in the back and I’m going to have to go to him.

  My heart is beating rapidly. As much as my head has plans, my heart has other ideas. His back is to me, his shirt tucked into the waistband of his pants, and he’s working the roller like it was the one who personally offended him. He’s angry, I can tell. I don’t want him to be angry. I want him to be happy while he’s here, because I’ve seen the difference when I take him back to his cell. He retreats back into himself, watching and wary of others. There’s no mistaking his high spirits when he gets let out each morning to come to the library and, if I’m honest, I feel the same way.

  I watch him for a minute, knowing that I should be careful, but wanting to throw complete caution to the wind and tell him how I really feel instead of hiding behind cruel words intended to push him away from my fragile state.

  ‘Saxon?’

  He doesn’t pause. Either he didn’t hear me or he’s ignoring the crap out of me.

  ‘Saxon? I’m sorry. I didn’t mean what I said, I just…’

  ‘You’re not the only one who’s hurting, you know.’ His voice is even tempered. There is no malice at all, just a monotone account of the facts.

  ‘I know,’ I whisper. ‘I’m sorry.’ He stops his painting and puts down the brush slowly, no wasted effort in his movements. He turns, little trickles of sweat running down his chest from his angered exertion just mome
nts ago. He takes a step towards me. Despite the fact that I hold all of the power, it is he who is the one who controls. With his finger, he lifts my chin up to look him in the eye, green pools of annealed hurt meeting my pleading stare.

  ‘I may be in here, Mercy, but it’s not because I don’t care about other people. I do. I fucked up. I made a mistake, one that I’d probably make a million times over again even though I feel guilty as shit for wishing that I never did what I did. I killed a man, because I valued my brother’s life over his. It wasn’t meant to end in death. It was one punch. Am I sorry? Hell yes. I wish I could take it all back. I did what I did because I felt my brother’s life was in jeopardy. Believe me when I tell you that I pray for forgiveness every day, but I can’t take back what happened. I just need to hope that one day my family, and everyone else who matters, find it in their hearts to forgive me.’

  His brow is crinkled with a frown, his disquiet clear for me to see.

  ‘I may be a prisoner, Mercy, but I’m no criminal.’

  He steps in closer, his heat radiating towards me. My mouth parts, slack with want for him. I want to shush him and tell him that things will get better, but I’d be lying if I did. So far I haven’t been that successful in digging myself out of the black hole I’ve been in either.

  He goes to reach for me then withdraws his hands just as suddenly. His retraction hurts me. I don’t want him to do that. I want him to touch me. I want to feel something other than miserable. I need him to take all my pain and hurt away, regardless of the consequences.

  Ever so slowly, I reach for his hands and bring them to my face. He lets me, but his eyes are full of questions—too many to be answered all at once.