The ink always made people wonder. The scars, too. Out of uniform, I didn’t look like someone you’d trust to walk yourgrandma across the street—more like someone you’d cross the street to avoid. And maybe that was the point. Let them wonder. Let them guess. Because the truth? I wasn’t even sure which side I belonged to most days.
“So what’s with all the tattoos?”
“What do you mean? I say, dipping my toast in the runny egg yolk.
“Why so many?”
“It’s art. I like art.” I say dryly.
“That’s it? That’s why you got tattoos? Because you think they look cool?” She mocks.
“No, most of them have a meaning, but I do like how they look.”
“That’s just dumb.” She says, taking a bite of the crispy bacon slice
“Why?”.
“Because they are permanent.” She says with a mouthful.
“So are kids, and people have those every day without thinking twice about it.”
She laughs—soft and unguarded—and for a second, it punches the breath right out of me. It’s the first time I’ve heard her laugh, and damn if it doesn’t crack something open in my chest. It doesn’t just sound nice—it feels like something. Like sunlight cutting through storm clouds. Like a breeze through a window I didn’t realize had been sealed shut. For a moment, it’s just the two of us—like lovers wrapped in quiet morning sheets, trading lazy smiles and half-whispered jokes. Not like the suffocating check-ins from my mom and sister—those come loaded with worry and weight. But this? This feels easy. Uncomplicated. And fuck if that doesn’t make me want more of it.
“Yeah, it’s why I’m never having them. I don’t want to fuck them up. Besides, kids are typically an extension of the parents’ selfish desires.” She says, taking a bite of her toast.
I furrow my eyebrows at her. “I can see some poor girl who grew up in the ghetto saying that, but why would you believe that?
“People with money are no different than people withoutmoney. People are people.” She says, staring down at her plate of food. “Money just makes the dirt around your house look less messy.”
“I beg to differ, you have all your basic needs met. Food, water, shelter, so half the problems rich people have are ones they created, typically because they are so damn bored. ” I say as I sip my coffee. “Like you, I’m sure you’re an alcoholic because you just have nothing else to do since Mommy and Daddy gave you everything. Why else would you drink so much?”
She scowls at me, and for a split second, guilt slices through me. I hadn’t meant to offend her—not really. But it’s hard to bite my tongue when I see people like her, draped in privilege, acting like their world is falling apart. Like, pain is some luxury they’ve earned. They don’t know what it’s like to survive on scraps of hope. To lie awake at night wondering if you’ll even make it to morning. If the darkness will finally win. So yeah—maybe I judged her too fast. But it’s hard not to, when you’ve clawed your way through hell and someone who’s never tasted smoke acts like they’ve been through the fire.
“That’s right, since my step-dad,” she emphasizes step, “has money I couldn't possibly ever have gone through anything, right?”
“I wasn’t trying to offend you.”
“That’s exactly what you were trying to do. And let's not forget I’m not the one who forced you to take me home, so fuck this shit.”
She pushes the chair back, and I grab her wrist. Every inch of her body goes tense, and I immediately release my hand.What is wrong with this girl?
“I’m sorry. You’re right. I shouldn’t have said that. I don’t know you or what you’ve been through.” Her body relaxes slowly, but her gaze remains intently fixated on me. We stayed like this for a few seconds until my phone rang.
“Please sit and finish your breakfast,” I say as I answer the call.
You have an outbound call from Ozark Correctional Center. Would you like to accept?I rise slowly, something heavy twisting in my gutas my phone buzzes again. Without looking at the screen, I answer it, voice flat. “If you’ll excuse me,” I say, catching the flicker of curiosity in Mel’s eyes as I head for the front door and step outside.
The morning air bites at my skin, sharp and cold like a warning. I press the phone to my ear.
“Yes,” I say. There’s a beat of silence. Then the voice I haven’t heard in years slithers through the speaker like poison.
“You answered. I always knew you were a smart guy. It’s been a long time since we’ve seen each other, or should I say talked?” Diablo says. The sound of his voice makes my pulse spike. My jaw clenches.
“How did you get my number?”
“Oh, c’mon, soldier. You should know I have goons everywhere, spying and watching. But since you have never been in one spot very long, I’ve never had an opportunity to call and let you in on the fun.”
My stomach coils. The weight of old ghosts pressing down on my chest. “What do you want?” I snap, cutting straight to the rot underneath his words.
