Hurt
A/N: This is more of the same from me, just a look inside Lincoln's head. This is set post-arrest for the murder of Terrence Steadman and was inspired by two other fanfic writers: chanchito_z and her fantastic story Rage of Angels and miss_vacant and her song inspired story Sparks! (Just try and delete that, bitches!) She challenged everyone to write something based on a song, and I've lately been listening to Hurt covered by Johnny Cash. (It was originally done by Nine Inch Nails.) This song reminded me of Lincoln on so many levels, really this could have been considerably longer, but I just tried to be concise.
you are someone else; i am still right here…
“Don’t make us find out if there’s someone in your life you are willing to do something for.”
Sitting in the holding cell, Lincoln Burrows can’t help the ironic flare of his lips as they curve upwards. That little pinhead Crab had brought into his house, the guy who got him the gun, the guy who told him where Terrence Steadman would be, had no idea that the reason he was even able to blackmail Lincoln in the first place was because of what he’d already been willing to do for someone he loved.
The irony that Michael morphed into LJ right before his eyes, under a threat he’d never considered, hadn’t really hit Lincoln until just now. The cold of the concrete seeps through his state-issued jumpsuit and his hip joints ache, but he stays sitting on the floor with his knees drawn up towards his chest. He could have gotten up on the platform that served as a bunk, but he doesn’t.
The knowledge that he would do something greater-something more insane than borrow 90 grand and say it was from an insurance policy that never existed-to protect his son hadn’t surprised Lincoln when it came, it merely nailed his coffin shut with a final, loud bang.
That he’d been motivated by love would be lost on the outside world. When she got the news that he had been arrested for murder, he could just hear Lisa’s grating voice: I knew this would happen someday. Or Michael’s sigh of exasperation, quickly followed by his lips being compressed into a tight line, both to hold in his anger and his fear. He imagines his 12-year-old son having to go to school tomorrow after his father’s name has been all over the front page of the Tribune and the Sun-Times.
He thinks of Veronica in her high-rise office building, a place she doesn’t even know he knows she works in, and the relief she’ll feel that she escaped the death trap of their relationship before it was too late.
i wear this crown of thorns upon my liar's chair…
He could live with Lisa’s recriminations. After all, he had 12 plus years of practice. She hadn’t been a love struck teenager who thought they’d shack up and play house when she’d accidentally gotten pregnant, but she had thought they’d make a go of it, and he’d only disappointed her with an inability to truly commit. Michael and Veronica proved to be distractions that constantly challenged their fraud of a marriage.
In the end, the only thing either of them had walked away with was a beautiful baby boy who hadn’t been conceived in love, and would never even be in the presence of parental cohesiveness.
That was just the beginning of LJ’s hurt.
everyone I know goes away in the end…
Lincoln had forgotten how quickly children forgive until LJ. He’d been surprised at how much his son reminded him of his brother when he would angrily stomp to his room and slam the door, only to come back out 20 minutes later and hug and kiss his father as though nothing had happened. Lincoln had always known that would only last so long. Eventually LJ would get old enough to know Lincoln shouldn’t be forgiven so easily, because Michael finally had. It surely wouldn’t take LJ as long to get there as it had Michael.
Not when he’d given him the perfect opportunity to be angry and never need to forgive. First Degree Murder, Prison and Life Without Parole made it hard to wait for those 20 minutes to pass by. It made it even harder to imagine a little boy who had so quickly forgotten hurts in the past could find it within himself to do again on such a grand scale.
try to kill it all away; but I remember everything…
Michael had, just the morning before made it clear that he was tired of Lincoln’s same old, same old. Of course, Lincoln was tired of it too, but the cycle was much easier to keep rotating through than to break out of, and so with accusation and disgust riding on his little brother’s face, he’d climbed the steps heavily to his apartment.
There he’d been forced into a decision that made all his previous decisions seem insignificant.
Michael’s ability to be condescending would only be enhanced by this. It wasn’t until he’d been running away from the dead man in the parking garage that he remembered Terrance Steadman’s name. He owned several businesses, but in particular, he owned the warehouse Lincoln had most recently worked in (and been fired from). When that connection was made, he might as well start paddling himself up the river. The only good thing he’d done was get rid of the gun. But somehow the cops had known where to find him, and he’d been too shaken up to notice the stuff in his bathtub that he hadn’t put there that he had no idea where it’d come from.
This was all Michael would need, a list of facts to back up his own sneaking suspicion that Lincoln was good for nothing. His genius mind would catalog all those details and hang Lincoln for treason quicker than he could say, “I didn’t do it.”
full of broken thoughts i cannot repair…
He presses his fingers to the concrete beneath him. He’s been using pretty much every day for the last couple years now, and now that he had been in custody almost 12 hours, he was beginning to dread the next 12. Normally, he could go without for a couple days, but not when he was stressed.
Even now just one joint would calm him enough to get through the next interrogation. One joint had been enough to steady his nerves so he could lever the gun at the man who was already dead. One joint might clear his mind of all the clutter. But one joint was as far away as a line of white powder or the grainy texture of the smack he wouldn’t take the time to smoke, just rub on the inside of his cheek.
It didn’t matter that he hadn’t actually killed the guy. The guy was dead. And Lincoln had gone there to kill him. And for all his intentions, the intentions to give his brother a better life, the intentions to be there for LJ more, to be the dad he hadn’t ever had himself, the intentions to one day be the man Veronica could be with, it didn’t matter. It was all a pile of shit that he had never sifted through, and now it was too late. He couldn’t kid himself. In less than 12 hours his skin would start prickling and he’d be unable to control it, just like his future would be spent looking at blank walls.
He supposed he ought to be grateful for the imposed detox. This way he wouldn’t die from a deal gone bad. He’d just live the rest of his life in a concrete jungle, in a maximum-security facility where they send murderers and rapists and pedophiles, where if he was lucky enough to know a couple guys already there he’d have a reputation to precede him that would keep him safe.
Safer, anyway.
i hurt myself today to see if I still feel…
He remembers several fights with Veronica, but one in particular towards the end of their ‘second try’ together (which was really like their 20th try), where she accused him of purposely doing things to hurt her. After she’d stormed out he’d realized it was himself he purposely hurt.
It had been a revelation about his own psyche that had accomplished nothing. And he’d kept doing it until he’d hurt them all so many times that the hurt to himself was incalculable. He knows all their reactions to the news without seeing any of them. He knows the pain they’d feel under the anger they’d display. It’s the same with him.
i focus on the pain; the only thing that's real…
He slams his head back against the cell wall. Once. Twice. A third time.
“Burrows, knock that shit out, or we’ll put you in with someone else.”
Lincoln freezes his self-abuse long enough to contemplate that. If there was someone in the cell with him, he was likely to pick a fight. That would be a good way to burn off the itching, crawling shame. He’d been offered his phone call, but he declined. He couldn’t call Michael and tell him where he was. Why he was there. He just couldn’t.
and you could have it all; my empire of dirt…
No one will be surprised this is where Lincoln Burrows ended up. But just because it isn’t surprising doesn’t mean it won’t be disappointing. Michael has the benefit of a different last name, so anyone who didn’t know they were connected could theoretically never know. LJ doesn’t have that advantage.
He could make protestations. He could scream his innocence, but it’s a lie he can’t utter. He is innocent of shooting a man he never met, but all the rest of it, and what led to it can’t be erased. Michael, with his superior sneer, wasn’t wrong at all. He was perfectly right.
And that’s what really hurts.
you are someone else; i am still right here…
“Don’t make us find out if there’s someone in your life you are willing to do something for.”
Sitting in the holding cell, Lincoln Burrows can’t help the ironic flare of his lips as they curve upwards. That little pinhead Crab had brought into his house, the guy who got him the gun, the guy who told him where Terrence Steadman would be, had no idea that the reason he was even able to blackmail Lincoln in the first place was because of what he’d already been willing to do for someone he loved.
The irony that Michael morphed into LJ right before his eyes, under a threat he’d never considered, hadn’t really hit Lincoln until just now. The cold of the concrete seeps through his state-issued jumpsuit and his hip joints ache, but he stays sitting on the floor with his knees drawn up towards his chest. He could have gotten up on the platform that served as a bunk, but he doesn’t.
The knowledge that he would do something greater-something more insane than borrow 90 grand and say it was from an insurance policy that never existed-to protect his son hadn’t surprised Lincoln when it came, it merely nailed his coffin shut with a final, loud bang.
That he’d been motivated by love would be lost on the outside world. When she got the news that he had been arrested for murder, he could just hear Lisa’s grating voice: I knew this would happen someday. Or Michael’s sigh of exasperation, quickly followed by his lips being compressed into a tight line, both to hold in his anger and his fear. He imagines his 12-year-old son having to go to school tomorrow after his father’s name has been all over the front page of the Tribune and the Sun-Times.
He thinks of Veronica in her high-rise office building, a place she doesn’t even know he knows she works in, and the relief she’ll feel that she escaped the death trap of their relationship before it was too late.
i wear this crown of thorns upon my liar's chair…
He could live with Lisa’s recriminations. After all, he had 12 plus years of practice. She hadn’t been a love struck teenager who thought they’d shack up and play house when she’d accidentally gotten pregnant, but she had thought they’d make a go of it, and he’d only disappointed her with an inability to truly commit. Michael and Veronica proved to be distractions that constantly challenged their fraud of a marriage.
In the end, the only thing either of them had walked away with was a beautiful baby boy who hadn’t been conceived in love, and would never even be in the presence of parental cohesiveness.
That was just the beginning of LJ’s hurt.
everyone I know goes away in the end…
Lincoln had forgotten how quickly children forgive until LJ. He’d been surprised at how much his son reminded him of his brother when he would angrily stomp to his room and slam the door, only to come back out 20 minutes later and hug and kiss his father as though nothing had happened. Lincoln had always known that would only last so long. Eventually LJ would get old enough to know Lincoln shouldn’t be forgiven so easily, because Michael finally had. It surely wouldn’t take LJ as long to get there as it had Michael.
Not when he’d given him the perfect opportunity to be angry and never need to forgive. First Degree Murder, Prison and Life Without Parole made it hard to wait for those 20 minutes to pass by. It made it even harder to imagine a little boy who had so quickly forgotten hurts in the past could find it within himself to do again on such a grand scale.
try to kill it all away; but I remember everything…
Michael had, just the morning before made it clear that he was tired of Lincoln’s same old, same old. Of course, Lincoln was tired of it too, but the cycle was much easier to keep rotating through than to break out of, and so with accusation and disgust riding on his little brother’s face, he’d climbed the steps heavily to his apartment.
There he’d been forced into a decision that made all his previous decisions seem insignificant.
Michael’s ability to be condescending would only be enhanced by this. It wasn’t until he’d been running away from the dead man in the parking garage that he remembered Terrance Steadman’s name. He owned several businesses, but in particular, he owned the warehouse Lincoln had most recently worked in (and been fired from). When that connection was made, he might as well start paddling himself up the river. The only good thing he’d done was get rid of the gun. But somehow the cops had known where to find him, and he’d been too shaken up to notice the stuff in his bathtub that he hadn’t put there that he had no idea where it’d come from.
This was all Michael would need, a list of facts to back up his own sneaking suspicion that Lincoln was good for nothing. His genius mind would catalog all those details and hang Lincoln for treason quicker than he could say, “I didn’t do it.”
full of broken thoughts i cannot repair…
He presses his fingers to the concrete beneath him. He’s been using pretty much every day for the last couple years now, and now that he had been in custody almost 12 hours, he was beginning to dread the next 12. Normally, he could go without for a couple days, but not when he was stressed.
Even now just one joint would calm him enough to get through the next interrogation. One joint had been enough to steady his nerves so he could lever the gun at the man who was already dead. One joint might clear his mind of all the clutter. But one joint was as far away as a line of white powder or the grainy texture of the smack he wouldn’t take the time to smoke, just rub on the inside of his cheek.
It didn’t matter that he hadn’t actually killed the guy. The guy was dead. And Lincoln had gone there to kill him. And for all his intentions, the intentions to give his brother a better life, the intentions to be there for LJ more, to be the dad he hadn’t ever had himself, the intentions to one day be the man Veronica could be with, it didn’t matter. It was all a pile of shit that he had never sifted through, and now it was too late. He couldn’t kid himself. In less than 12 hours his skin would start prickling and he’d be unable to control it, just like his future would be spent looking at blank walls.
He supposed he ought to be grateful for the imposed detox. This way he wouldn’t die from a deal gone bad. He’d just live the rest of his life in a concrete jungle, in a maximum-security facility where they send murderers and rapists and pedophiles, where if he was lucky enough to know a couple guys already there he’d have a reputation to precede him that would keep him safe.
Safer, anyway.
i hurt myself today to see if I still feel…
He remembers several fights with Veronica, but one in particular towards the end of their ‘second try’ together (which was really like their 20th try), where she accused him of purposely doing things to hurt her. After she’d stormed out he’d realized it was himself he purposely hurt.
It had been a revelation about his own psyche that had accomplished nothing. And he’d kept doing it until he’d hurt them all so many times that the hurt to himself was incalculable. He knows all their reactions to the news without seeing any of them. He knows the pain they’d feel under the anger they’d display. It’s the same with him.
i focus on the pain; the only thing that's real…
He slams his head back against the cell wall. Once. Twice. A third time.
“Burrows, knock that shit out, or we’ll put you in with someone else.”
Lincoln freezes his self-abuse long enough to contemplate that. If there was someone in the cell with him, he was likely to pick a fight. That would be a good way to burn off the itching, crawling shame. He’d been offered his phone call, but he declined. He couldn’t call Michael and tell him where he was. Why he was there. He just couldn’t.
and you could have it all; my empire of dirt…
No one will be surprised this is where Lincoln Burrows ended up. But just because it isn’t surprising doesn’t mean it won’t be disappointing. Michael has the benefit of a different last name, so anyone who didn’t know they were connected could theoretically never know. LJ doesn’t have that advantage.
He could make protestations. He could scream his innocence, but it’s a lie he can’t utter. He is innocent of shooting a man he never met, but all the rest of it, and what led to it can’t be erased. Michael, with his superior sneer, wasn’t wrong at all. He was perfectly right.
And that’s what really hurts.