Will you go somewhere far away and forget this little thread we tied between us? I wouldn’t blame you.
But if you’re still reading my letters by then… maybe you’ll want to find me.
And if you do… I think I’d say yes.
– M
Ten~Counting Days
Jaxon
IThought The Worst Part Of Prison Would Be The Cell. It’s not. It’s the waiting. Waiting to eat. Waiting to sleep. Waiting for the count. Waiting for showers. Waiting for letters. Waiting for news. Waiting to feel like a person again instead of something filed under a case number and a crime.
Time moves differently in here. It doesn’t flow; it drips. One grey day after another, everyone the same shade, until you’re not sure where one ends and the next begins. You measure weeks in mail days and laundry cycles. You measure months in court dates and cancelled visits. You measure everything by what you’re waiting for.
And now, after all this time, I get the one piece of news I wasn’t ready for: I’m getting out. December 23rd. Two days before Christmas. Early release. Reduced charges. Herstatement helped, my lawyer said that twice, like he couldn’t quite believe it. So did my“good behavior,”as if not starting fights and doing my job in the laundry room was some kind of miracle.
Maybe it was.
Maybe miracles look like a worn-out public defender who didn’t give up, a DA who didn’t want to risk a jury, and a girl who wrote the truth down on a piece of paper and sent it into a system that doesn’t usually listen.
I don’t tell anyone. Not yet. The less attention I draw to myself in here, the better. Guys who make noise about their release dates sometimes find that trouble comes looking for them before they can reach the gate. Old grudges. New jealousies. Bored men with nothing better to do than ruin something for someone else.
So, when the guard walks me back from the admin office, I keep my face blank. When he unlocks my cell and jerks his chin for me to go in, I do. No comments, no jokes, no questions. The door slams. The lock slides home. The silence that follows is thicker than usual.
I sit on the edge of my cot and just… stare at the floor. Freedom should feel like fire. Like someone lit a match in the dark and suddenly everything’s glowing and possible. It feels like frost. Cold around the edges, creeping in slowly. Making everything tighter, sharper. Because now there’s space for the question, I’ve been trying not to think about it for weeks to finally sit down beside me.What now?
I rub a hand over my face and let my head drop forward. The concrete wall presses against my shoulder blades. The hum of the fluorescent light above buzzes at the edge of my hearing, too soft to be a real distraction.
December 23rd. I turn the date over in my head like a coin between my fingers. Three weeks from now. Not long enough to really get used to the idea. Longer than I want to spend in here, knowing the end is that close.
“Congrats,” my lawyer had said in the admin room, adjusting his too-big tie. “You’ll be out in time for Christmas. That’s something, right?”
I’d just grunted. Because yeah, it’s something. But it’s also everything. And I don’t know what to do with that.
He’d pushed the paperwork toward me, explained in that fast, rehearsed voice about conditions and parole, about check-ins and restrictions.
No leaving the county without permission.
No weapons.
No “associating with known criminals.”
Keep a job.
Keep your head down.
“You do this right, Jaxon, and this is behind you. You mess up…”
We both knew the rest.
I signed where he told me to, ink scratching across official boxes. My name looked strange on those lines. Too small. Like it didn’t fill the space it was meant to.
“Her statement helped,” he repeated, tapping one section of the file. “The detective said she was insistent. Clear. The DA didn’t want a jury hearing a scared woman talk about a guy dragging her into the woods, and you pulling him off. Makes you look… better than they like defendants to look.”
“Did you just admit the system’s stacked?” I’d asked, eyebrows lifting.
He’d huffed a tired laugh. “I didn’t say that. I’m just saying you owe someone a thank you.”
