[PART FIVE] - CLOSED
THE SOCIAL NETWORK KINK MEME
ASK THE MODS * FAQ * DISCUSSION * RESEARCH * FILL LIST * PART ONE * PART ONE (OVERFLOW) * PART TWO * PART TWO (OVERFLOW) * PART THREE * (PART THREE (OVERFLOW) * PART FOUR
GENERAL RULES;
IMPORTANT: please DO NOT post prompts about any non-public people as part of a prompt. for example: randi ( Read more... )
ASK THE MODS * FAQ * DISCUSSION * RESEARCH * FILL LIST * PART ONE * PART ONE (OVERFLOW) * PART TWO * PART TWO (OVERFLOW) * PART THREE * (PART THREE (OVERFLOW) * PART FOUR
GENERAL RULES;
IMPORTANT: please DO NOT post prompts about any non-public people as part of a prompt. for example: randi ( Read more... )
Andrew Garfield was just visiting Kiera. He’s a skinny Half-English gay-best-friend who takes tea with two sugars and milk, a guilty pleasure. He’s quiet, he’s reserved, he wouldn’t hurt a fly.
The jury at his trial obviously didn’t agree, because with each charge, the foreman replied with ‘guilty’, and a further weight was added to Andrew’s shoulders.
When he’d lived at home, at a time that seems so long ago, he’d helped his father rig up their twin kayaks, chaining them to the ceiling of the garage. Chains have a different meaning now: uncomfortable and cramped, with the overall coating of shame. He didn’t do those horrible things, the ones the jury said he did, but that doesn’t mean they didn’t judge him.
He floated through new experiences and procedures with a technique well honed from growing up with an anxiety disorder and bullying at school because of his confidence, his speech, his body (though which came first, chicken or egg, anxiety disorder or trauma?).
Everything drifted by: he said nothing, obeyed everything (stand here; give me your wrists; bend over, lift this; wear this; say this). He thought about gardens in Surrey, running away from school to parks and backstreets where no one even looked at him, let alone cast aspersions or mocked. He thought about his favourite paths, winding ways, footpaths to nowhere on days when the sun was shining and the humidity lay low and thick as a promise of later
When he was finished with that memory, he thought about hot summers before break, leaving school campus to run to the private high school nearby so he could sit on the edge of their oval, unknown and unnoticed, bathing in the summer sun, bringing promises of summer break. (Tick this; hold this; wrists; walk - corridor after corridor, gate after gate, this is life, his life, his life now, life, life, life, life sentences, no chance of parole.)
And now he’s here, and it’s cold.
He can’t find those memories, can’t relate to them any longer. All the warmth has been stripped from him.
He was Andrew Garfield, the gay next door, half-American son of a swimming instructor who loved him to bits.
Now he’s Garfield, AI11979, prisoner of the state, convicted, sentenced, hidden away from a father and mother that promised he would never see them again, for the rest of his life.
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One guard, with the name tag ‘Sorkin’ frowns when the other guard stops outside a cell with the number 52 etched into a yellow plastic square above it.
‘Fifty-two, but that’s-’ the other guard - Fincher - shakes his head.
‘Kid can look after himself.’
‘One of them’s gonna end up dead,’ Sorkin mutters, but nudges Andrew to step through the now (electronically, remotely) opened cell door, putting a key in the handcuffs Andrew had nearly, nearly forgotten about.
He had thought maybe the guards had forgotten about him too; they had been talking around him like he wasn’t there, like he was less than air. Maybe that is what he is now.
They don’t say anything more, and the door slams shut.
The quiet is welcome. Jail was loud, the holding cells under the courthouse were worse, because he’d had to share. He hasn’t known silence in such a long time.
The emptiness of the cell block is backed by the buzzing noises he now knows are caused by electronic doors being unlocked and locked, and the hum of far-off voices. Within the block itself, though, he could hear a pin drop. It’s a massive relief. He doubts it will stay that way, but he can enjoy it for now.
The cell is built for two people. He’s attractive in a feminine way. He’s gay. These are all facts. He chooses to ignore these facts - what can he do about them? Run away to a park? Not anymore. Escape is the last thing he can do here.
He sits on the lower bunk bed. It’s made in a military neat fashion, in opposition to the one above which is almost as neat, but has a triangle pulled away, the lip folded over slightly. It looks almost homely, someone else’s bed.
He cries into his pillow for a long time before he falls asleep.
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