Prison Promise (Prison Saints Book 1) by Demi Vice (26)

I finally read the letter. Then I reread it a hundred times as if the words needed to be decrypted. I bawled my eyes out, but this time my tears were happy ones. Peaceful ones. Ones that didn’t burn my eyes or trap my lungs in a cage.

I held the letter up above my face, the lights from the Chicago skyline acting my lantern in the dark abyss that was Jack’s bedroom.

For some unknown reason. Luke forgave me. He even apologized to me when it should’ve been the other way around. I could’ve fixed Luke’s fate by turning myself in, but I stayed on the sidelines throwing loose change at his case.

I examined Luke’s chicken scratch writing like this letter was the meaning of life, the key to happiness, and to me, it was. I’d been in my own form of prison for the last four years, bottling up my emotions and throwing them into the sea, letting the violent waves of the ocean take care of them. For years I had never shed a tear, and even before that week, I’d rarely cried. I was convinced that surviving was my life.

Surviving, both physically and mentally.

Luke’s words mended my heart, but there were still some things I didn’t understand. The biggest being how did Luke know about Aurora? How did Luke know what he did to her unless he got a letter from her, and if so, what did his letter say?

I read my favorite lines over and over again, but like my environment, it felt like a dream. I could still hear the hurt and anger in Luke’s voice when he told me that he hated me. Or when he said to me, I should’ve been the one who killed myself, not Aurora, and trust me…I’d thought about it. Aurora was sent from above while I was sent from below. But I’d never regret killing my mother or aunt or trying to kill him.

I used the same method Jack used in his first kill. Poison. It wasn’t hard to do. My mom and aunt always sat on the kitchen floor when they were about to get high. They hid their drugs under the kitchen sink, taped to the side. It was easy for the cops to assume they wanted to chase a new high, mixing the rat poison pellets with their meth or heroin. But little did the police know it was me and I was fucking ecstatic about their deaths. The same euphoric feeling I had when I hid behind the tree as I watched him and his house burn before my plan had fallen apart.

If my plan had gone the way it should've gone then, I’d be with Luke right now. We would most likely be living in a shitty studio apartment, sharing a bed which he would’ve loved. I wonder if prison had changed him? Probably. I’d changed, but not for the best.

I thought more about Luke and me until it hit me. I would’ve never met Jack. That thought alone made me want to sink into the black cloud that was his bed. I wouldn’t be in this bed, looking up at the drapes hanging from the canopy or covered with a layer of black silk, if I’d never met Jack. If Luke had never gone to prison all of this would just be an impossible fantasy.

I folded the letter and sat up, looking around the dark room. I had woken up a few hours ago, but this was the first time I’d gotten up. I was late for my Diablo’s shift, but hell if I cared. I was still in my own little dark fantasy trying to figure out what was real or not.

“Jack?” I shouted once more, my voice sore from all the talking and crying.

Jack wasn’t home. I’d shouted his name hours ago when I’d first woken up, and I knew if he were home, he would’ve ran to me in a heartbeat.

I scanned the room which had Jack’s special touch. Clean. No more glass from the light bulb and no more floor lamp lying broken across the floor. It stood upright with a new light bulb, and my heels were nowhere to be seen, but there was something white at the end of the bed. A simple white dress shirt. Crawling across the bed, I found a ripped sheet of paper lying on top.

I looked at the label of the dress shirt. Prada. I grabbed the shirt and looked down at my velvet dress. Jack hadn't taken my clothes off. He always took them off. It was more for his sanity and selfish behaviors. I knew why he did it. One, he hated it when outside clothes touched his clean sheets. And two, he enjoyed it when I was in my panties and socks so he could rub his naked body on mine when we slept together. But Jack left me alone.

Another ripped sheet caught my eye, this one laying on the nightstand.

I did as Paper-Jack commanded and opened the drawer to find a phone exactly like his but in white. The clock flashed 11:49 pm on the screen.

“Jack!” I yelled again, but no reply.

I wonder where he was or when he was coming back. I still had a lot to ask him.

What did he go to prison? Was he still killing? Or was he retired like he wanted? What did he do in the morning when he said he was looking for a job? Was his money legal? What else did he lie about? His childhood? His scars? Link?

I deserved my answers.

I distracted my mind with my new phone. Playing and fiddling with what every person in the whole country, even toddlers, knew how to work. I went into a post-it memo app where there was a little note typed out.

I placed my letter from Luke in the drawer and gripped my new phone, ready to listen to Paper-Jack again. My eyes dropped to the ground as my feet dangled off the bed. It still felt unreal. The thought of the floor turning into a black hole, sucking me whole, and spitting me out at Wazowski’s, crossed my mind. My big toe touched the black ice as if I was testing the temperature of the water. Nope, it wasn’t a dream. The earth was still fifty-nine floors below me, and everything still intact.

I glided over the floor, through the double doors and took in the massive penthouse. It was empty and in need of more things to make it feel like a home. Then again, Jack had only been out of prison for two weeks, and he’d spent most of that time with me. I walked closer to the wall, trailing my hand over the matte black surface. The whole apartment felt like someone had turned off the saturation knob in my eyes, making everything the only two colors Jack knew.

I went over to the kitchen to find another note, this time on top of one of those silver bowl things that servers covered food with. There was a glass of water and an Advil next to the silver bowl thing. Jack read my mind. I took my pill and drank my water as I read the following note.

Under the silver bowl was the fanciest grilled cheese sandwich and tomato soup I had ever seen. The sandwich was cut in half, triangle shape, drizzled with an orange sauce and topped off with a perfect cherry tomato. The tomato soup was a vibrant red, fresh, and homemade. Nothing like the soup from Maddy’s that came in a can. It didn’t take me long to inhale the cold food.

Best. Fucking. Grilled. Cheese. Sandwich. Ever.

Sorry, Aurora.

I was about to put my plate in the sink until Paper-Jack scolded me.

I found myself smiling. I wanted to explore more of the penthouse, but my curiosity wasn’t that strong. I went back into Jack’s room, but instead of going into the closet, I decided to take a shower.

I grabbed the white shirt and headed into the master bathroom. It was like he described. Huge, with white marble floors, black tiles, black cabinets, and a fucking waterfall shower.

It was more of a heavy spring shower than a waterfall, but I wasn’t complaining. Why would I? I was just happy I didn't have to wait for the water to turn clear. I lathered my body and hair for a few minutes, and when I was done, I went toward the only towel hanging on the bar embroidered with the initials JB. Jack’s white Prada shirt went past my bare ass, clinging to my wet body.

I didn’t go to the closet, my attention was stolen by the skyline of Chicago and the black hollow dent that was Lake Michigan. I pressed my forehead to the glass, my breath coating the clear glass with steam. I peacefully watched the city until I looked down. Nausea hit me once again and I was forced to step back and hold my grilled cheese down.

I guess you’re not good with heights, Ahri.

I cleared my throat and swallowed the taste of stomach acid and my dinner. Dragging my feet, I walked toward the sliding closet door. The door slid to the side with only a tiny amount of effort, and I was welcomed to a white room, aside from Jack’s clothes.

My toes gripped the soft, cloud-like carpet as I stepped inside. Jack’s expensive clothes on one side and on the other all the different Doc Marten styles you could imagine that came in black and his size. There was a pair of shoes that didn’t belong. My heels. Smacked in the middle of an empty shelf where my cheap twenty-dollar heels. They looked almost expensive with the light of the shelf, gleaming over them.

A smile spread across my face until I looked at the end of the closet…the mirror. It was the size of a large door, and it had a note taped to it.

Enjoy?

I stared back at myself in the mirror, face flushed, eyes no longer as charcoal and baggy, but instead wide as an eight ball. I grabbed the note, and slowly opened the mirror like a door.

“Holy shit.” I gasped.

My whole body felt like I was shrinking from anxiety. The safe was enormous with a starfish-shaped knob and a circular number dial at the top. I failed the combo until my fifth try when I turned the handle, and the metal creaked.

“What the fuck?”

There were dozens of long metal lock boxes, the kind that belonged in a bank. They were all labeled with duct tape and a Sharpie, all twenty-two boxes. The first one at the top labeled ‘Age 1-5,’ the second ‘Age 6,’ and so on until it stopped at ‘Age 26’ then started again at ‘Age 33.’

What caught my attention was a smaller safe at the bottom that had three different forms of protection. A number pad, a number dial, and a touch print. There was no note this time, so I knew it wasn’t my business.

What’s in the safe, Jack?

I ignored it to the best of my abilities and moved to the first long metal box labeled ‘Age 1-5.’ It wasn't locked, and the metal top flipped open to reveal documents and memories. One of which was Jack’s birth certificate with his original name, ‘Igor Patryk Baronski.’

I snooped some more, finding out Jack had universal donor blood, and that he’d spent six months in detox before being placed in Mama Baronski’s house. Just as he told me. There were only a few pictures of Jack as a toddler and one that spoke out to me.

Jack wore a bright purple shirt tucked into his large jeans. His hair was still raven black, but military shaved, and his two front teeth were missing as he sported his famous smile. Even as a toddler Jack had that smile. In his hands, Jack held a huge lollipop the size of his head. I turned the photo around.

‘Wszystkiego najlepszego, mój mały Uśmiech.’

My Polish might not be perfect, but I knew it said, ‘Happy Birthday, my little Smile.’

I put the first box on the floor and moved on the second. This one had more pictures and disposable rolls of film, twelve of them. I moved on to the next box, same deal with the photos and film rolls. I pulled out all the metal boxes ages 1-26 and aligned them on the floor in order.

All of the boxes had undeveloped film rolls and a few dozen photos, but only some had souvenirs.

A dragon ring, a leather necklace with a metal skull on it, a teenage mutant ninja turtle—the one with a blue mask—trading card, the acceptance letter to Van Gage High, and a few other things. My favorite keepsake was a page ripped out of Hamlet. All the text was blacked out except for, ‘Though this be madness, yet there is method in't.’ Jack must have read this quote a million times taking in how the paper no longer felt like paper, but tissue paper.

Jack said he loved Hamlet.

I spent at least an hour on the floor going through all the photos, ignoring the rolls of film. Once I was done, I picked my favorites.

There were seven.

The first being a picture of Mama Baronski and Jack. They’d taken a selfie, the flash from the camera blinding them both, but they were smiling. She had dirty blond hair, a warm skin tone, and a very pointy nose. She looked kind, a woman with a warm heart like Jack had described.

The words on the back were written in Jack’s six-year-old handwriting.

‘First camera.’

The second image was of Link wearing his ninja turtle outfit. His ash blonde hair was almost white, and his blue eye was the same color as the mask he wore. Link was crying in the photo. His eyes red and glossy while he pouted his bottom lip out as far as it could go. Link was eight, Jack was twelve.

‘Banana Split crying cuz I didn’t wanna put on my costume.’

Banana Split. Cute.

The third picture was of fourteen-year-old Jack, pre-rose tattoo. The scar on his neck was thick and pink, his hair was long and wavy going past his ears, and that smile was still there. It was weird seeing Jack when he was younger, but in a way, he hadn’t changed one bit. The guy was practically immortal.

‘Getting a tattoo tomorrow.’

The fourth image was the creepiest picture. The one of the toddler in front of a mirror dressed in nurse scrubs. But what Jack had failed to mention was that the kid had blood on his shirt and gloves. Jack’s blood. The image didn’t scare me if anything it had me at ease. If it weren’t for Ceifador, Jack would have been eaten alive. Literally.

‘Guardian Ceifador.’

The fifth image was another one of Link when he was getting his first tattoo. Link was shooting Jack a death stare, but it was hard not to smile while Jack threw a thumbs up in the photo from behind the camera.

‘Payback for the rose. Enjoy the rich fuckers that’ll be your parents. Jacked Forever.’ I could practically hear Jack saying that.

The sixth image was of eighteen-year-old Jack smoking a cigarette in his black briefs inside a shitty, rundown apartment. He was a tall, skinny thing as he posed with his fist on his hip like a superhero. All he needed was a cape, and he looked like Superman ready for his photo shoot. Or should I say Wonder Woman. Because my God, Jack’s hair! Wavy and curly, cascading over his chest and still looking hot as hell.

It was odd seeing Jack with non-tattooed skin. He still had tattoos, but they were mostly on his arms. His flat stomach had no muscle on it, and it was completely exposed and full of discolored cuts. There were more than I thought.

‘I’m legal baby! Come and touch me! Happy birthday to fucking me!’

I laughed.

The seventh and last picture was my favorite of Jack. He was the same age as me, and he looked so peaceful and tranquil inside his clean and tidy bedroom. This apartment looked a lot better than the one he’d lived in when he was eighteen. A huge upgrade.

The photo was in black and white, giving it that retro and artistic feel that made me want to memorize every pixel. There was a bed on the right side of the wall with a window above the metal frame, a nightstand next to his bed stacked with books, a Polaroid camera, and a lonely goldfish inside a clear small bowl.

Jack was to the left, sitting inside a black bean bag chair in the corner in only his black briefs. His legs were long and wide as he read a thick book on his lap. Instead of his usual Marlboro, Jack was smoking a joint with a small grin at the corner of his mouth. Jack might have not had his wide smile, but his eyes said it all. His blissfully closed eyes as he took in every shitty part of his dream office, in his dream penthouse, in his dream hotel.

Jack was in heaven.

‘One day. Every day. A million times better.’

I smiled and held onto the photo. I placed all the other images where they belonged and the metal boxes back in the safe. I saved the ‘Age 33’ box for last because I knew it would be empty. I popped the lid open, and my heart came to a stop. There were three pictures, all of me, and a sim card.

There was a photo of me in the back of Maddy’s diner when I was on my music break.

‘The sunshine in the dark.’

The other photo in black and white. It was a close-up photo of my face when I was sleeping. This must have been the day Jack had caught me with Camera-Jack.

‘Underrated artwork.’

The final photo was the photo from the library where he caught my smile.

‘The stubborn little thief who stole my heart.’

My heart started up again, this time my blood jetted through my body, warming every part of me. I love Jack. I think I knew this for a while. Maybe even the first day when I did a double take on his face, and I wanted to just hear him talk for years on end. I still partially hate him for lying about the letter (since I knew he wasn’t lying about anything else), but I loved him.

I stared at the image for a while until I heard a knock on the closet door. My head snapped around toward the sound. It was Jack. He moved toward me with a smile on his slightly bruised face.

“Guess you found my little scavenger hunt?” Jack chuckled.

“Are you okay?”

Jack nodded and chuckled again. His eyes were tired as could be, but he looked at me like I was the most priceless thing in the room. He sat on the black ottoman a few feet in front of me as he scanned the silver boxes that held his life possessions.

A heavy sigh left his lips as he rubbed his sore neck. “256 rolls of film with 27 pictures on each of them. That’s over a grand total of 6912 photos in twenty years. From when I was six years old and got my first camera all the way till I got locked up.” Jack laughed and shook his head in disbelief.

“Where did you keep when you were in prison?” I spoke softly, sitting on the floor and looking at the massive safe full of Jack’s memories.

“Like a pirate, I buried my treasure. I started my dirty underground closet when I was thirteen. Each year I would add more to my collection. Even when I was in the East Coast, I would come back to Whole Park once a year in April, bring my treasure, and bury it. You could not believe how fucking happy I was when I went back there after seven years and everything was still there.” Jack grinned.

“So, you didn't lie to me about your name. Or Link. Or Guardian Ceifador. You didn’t lie to me about your memories.”

Jack shook his head. “I only lied about Fidget and prison. And finding a chef job. And being the apartment guy. But I promise that’s all. I'll tell you the truth about everything from now on. I promise.”

I nodded slowly. Putting away box ‘Age 33,’ but holding on to my favorite photo of Jack.

“So, then you’ll tell me about what happened after you left Chicago? About the Hollow Kingdom? How you became a hitman? About it all?”

Jack sighed and stood up. He walked over to the entrance of the closet and slid the door closed. I gulped. Jack pulled something out from the back of his pants when he made his way back to me. My body was covered in an ice storm when my hands made contact with my journal. And when I saw the blood on the cover, my adrenaline spiked.

“I’ll tell you everything.” Jacked grunted taking his seat on the ottoman again. “But the skeletons remain in this closet. Deal?”