Because it was going to be a few days for my case to go through and for my mom to get over here, they moved me to a proper prison somewhere. Y'know the ones. The kind where nearly everyone in there is desperate to ass rape the newest unfortunate soul to get put away. I'm not sure whether it's a good thing or not, but I landed myself in isolation for most of my stay.
I didn't like the way the cops treated me. I didn't like that they denied me my methadone prescription, and I didn't like that they fucking hit me at every given opportunity - and then some. I didn't like my cell mate and I didn't like having to be in the canteen. I was the skinny new kid, the junkie, and the vulnerable looking one. At least I was til my cell mate tried to get in my pants and I lost my temper. I'm not sure how long he couldn't move for, but it was a pretty long time.
And after that little incident - even though technically I was the victim - I was put in isolation.
Like I said, I'm not sure if the isolation was a good thing or not. It gave the cops on duty more opportunity to be complete dicks to me, and I'm kind of amazed I didn't end up in a straightjacket. But I could be dopesick in private, and no one was trying to rape me. Oh and I didn't have to go to the canteen.
"Your mom's here to see you," a big, burly cop sneers, smirking down at me like I'm a bug he'd quite like to squish. I'm sat on the hard little bed thing they have in the isolation room, feeling like shit and like the only thing I could possibly throw up now is my actual stomach. Hopefully that won't happen, though the prospect of moving anywhere isn't exactly making me feel too confident about that. I'm well aware that I smell of puke, and I'm pretty sure I got some on me. I look up at him, silently asking if he really expects me to go out and face my mom like this.
He's already got the handcuffs ready though, and he's walking over to me, each step making my head pound. He yanks me up and tightens the cuffs around my wrists, pushing me forward.
I'm sat at one of those little booth things with the Plexiglas between me and my mom. I dunno what they're expecting me to do, to be honest. All I wanna do is go home and have my methadone and stop feeling like I'm dying. I mean, dying's fine, but the long, painfully slow trudge towards it isn't so much fun.
"Hey, mom," I practically whisper as the cop uncuffs me again and stands too close behind me. I don't think she hears me. Either that or she's too busy being upset at how shit I probably look to notice that I spoke.
The long and short of it is, she cried a lot, begged me to go back to Campbell, shouted at me to go back when I refused and told me I'd be out of there in a couple of days.
My mom takes me to the hotel when I'm let out, to go get my stuff.
"You look like shit," Kyle says bluntly when he sees the new, thinner, sickly looking me.
"Thanks, man," I mumble quietly, kind of watching as my mom gathers all my things, packing them back in my bag. Kyle arches his eyebrow. "Mom's making me go back home. She's booked a session with Campbell for later, I think."
"Oh... That's good though, right?" I shrug. I'd rather not go, to be honest. There's an awkward pause that my mom seems oblivious to.
"I need a shower," I mutter, slipping past him into the bathroom, turning the water on. I strip and sit under the water, leaning back on the wall. I hear my mom leave after a couple of minutes, not listening as she says something to me through the door. Kyle shuffles in after she's left, looking down at me in the shower.
"What's up?" he asks quietly.
"I spent my last week going cold turkey and being beaten up by cops. I don't know where I stand with you anymore and the only reason I didn't provoke some thug into murdering me while I was there was ‘cause I got put in isolation," I talk to my feet, prodding one of the bruises on my stomach absently. He holds his arms out for a hug and I get up, feeling slightly better with his familiar arms around me, even if he might not be mine anymore. He rubs my back and I put my head on his shoulder.
"As for where you stand with me..." I'm quiet. I've kind of resigned myself to being alone again during my week in prison. I wouldn't blame him after this, to be honest. "I'll be here for as long as you want me." I resist the urge to get ahead of myself and believe he means what I hope he means.
"...together or as friends?" I ask kind of reluctantly.
"Together, if that's what you want," he says with a tiny smile. No need to be so enthusiastic.
I squeeze him slightly and bury my head in his neck, unable to find the words to thank him.