Point of View: Nick
I hadn't left my room since Eric disappeared. The third day, the nurse realized I didn't want to go anywhere, and started bringing food to the room. "We can't let you starve," she commented, dropping a sandwich and a glass of water on the desk. I'd picked at the sandwich, but I really wasn't hungry.
The nurses brought in stacks of paper at a time as I started drawing everything in the room in quick gesture drawings, my hands flying over the sheets of paper, capturing the contours of the bed, or the way the sheets had fallen on it. I flipped the page over and started again every time I finished a drawing, then crumpled the pages up and threw them, littering up the floor until irritated housekeeping staff would come and sweep them up.
I saw less and less of the nurses now, and more and more of regular jail staff. The nurses pretty much came in to check on the wounds and change the bandages, which they had started using large square gauzy things to cover, rather than the huge square and ace tape. They said that it would make my chest feel less constricted, but I felt like I couldn't breathe even after the ace bandage was gone.
I stared out the window a lot, counting in my mind to keep my ADHD busy and remembering my friends. I thought about the fans - imagining my view from the stage, their smiling faces up turned towards me.
It was around four o'clock in the afternoon, I guess, when a persistent banging came on my door. It was loud, angry, fast-paced banging.
"Um hello?" I called.
"Mother fucking bastard!!!" It was one of those two guys who tortured the hell out of Eric. The one with the tattoo.
Despite myself, I rushed toward the door. "What do you want?" I demanded.
"Your little fucking prick partner fucking tried to kill my best friend," he bellowed.
I blinked in surprise. "Eric?" I asked.
"Who the fuck else?" screamed Tattoo.
Eric had attacked one of them and gotten a hard enough hit in that Tattoo was here, pissed... Eric had defended himself, and won. A surge of pride ran through my body as I imagined Eric's first lesson out in the courtyard when he'd punched like a weak little girl, and I'd ended up with a sore jaw. I laughed at the thought of it, and Eric's expression. He'd come a long way in just a few days and I'd succeeded at making his life at least a little better by getting him a way out - away from these assholes.
"I'll fucking get my revenge," Tattoo swore suddenly, the banging on the door stopping. His voice was breathless, heavy. "Don't you fucking doubt it a second, Carter. Don't you fucking doubt it a second."
Thank God I'll be out of here in a week, I thought.
"I'll fuckin' catch up to you when you least expect it, and I'll make damn sure your little prick partner hears all about how much fun we're gonna have..."
I walked away from the door and sat down at the desk, trying to ignore him as he resumed the banging, persistently trying to regain my attention.
My hands moved over the paper again. I could hear him looming in the hall, waiting, watching. I drew Eric. I drew Eric as Superman, though I was realistic with the body proportions. I smiled at the drawing, imagining him defeating every enemy who crossed his path. I flipped the page over and scrawled out a letter.
I'm so proud of you dude! You did it. And you got the transfer! Write to me, and I will come visit you.
Stay strong,
Nick.
I put down AJ's address, since my house in California was a little bit on the nonexistent side. I decided I'd venture out of the room only long enough to mail it the next day. Surely the jail would know where Eric had been transferred to and be able to send it to him...
That night, I slept better than I had the previous two. I dreamt of Kayla. When I woke up in the morning, I was hugging a pillow to my chest, my face buried in the top of it, my legs searching for hers to entangle in, but, of course, they were no where to be found.
I missed her so much.
