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Chasing a Butterfly	By : OpenPage Category: 1 through F > 21 Jump Street Views: 2592 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own 21JS or the characters. I do not make any money from the writing of this story. All characters and events in this story are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is coincidental.

Chapter List
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Wednesday November 8^th1989 (11.48 a.m.)
The echo of heavy footsteps steadily grew louder and lifting his head, Tom stared at the bars of the tiny cell that confined him within the county jail. His heart started to pound in his chest as the reality of the situation hit him hard; he was about to be transported to prison and he would not be a free man again for a very long time. His sentence of five years with a non-parole term of eighteen months had not shocked him; Williams had prepared him for the worst and during the days leading up to his hearing he had slowly managed to get his head around the fact. However, he now realized that accepting what might happen was a very different concept to the harsh reality of what had actually happened, and the true horror of his situation was only now starting to sink in. He was a convicted felon, guilty of negligent homicide by his own admission and he would spend the next year and a half of his life locked up with murders, rapists and every other type of criminal imaginable. It was a terrifying notion because he knew the inmates would automatically perceive him as weak and vulnerable. He was exactly the type the bull queers would prey upon and he did not feel conceited in recognizing the fact. He had worked in law enforcement long enough to know he fit the mold; he was young, attractive, slightly built and had a past history of drug use and prostitution. Also, there was the added misfortune of being an ex police officer. Nothing gained the respect of an inmate’s peers faster than bagging a cop and he knew he would need to be vigilant and never let his guard down, otherwise he could end up on the receiving end of a severe beating… or worse, wind up dead.
The footsteps grew louder, now taking on an increased urgency in their quickening pace. Standing up, he took a deep breath and prepared himself for the inevitable. But when he saw Booker’s face frozen in a mask of pure misery, his heart skipped a beat and he choked back a sob. He thought he would have time to get used to the idea of prison before he saw Dennis again and that he would have had a reassuring speech worked out to placate his lover. He had wanted time to settle into his environment so he could work on feigning happiness rather than causing Dennis any unnecessary worry by revealing the panic he knew was shining from his eyes. But instead, there he was, staring at his lover through the bars of a cell and the pain in his heart crippled him with its intensity. He knew he looked terrified, lost and alone and his body began to tremble violently at the knowledge of the heartache he was causing. He should have walked away from his relationship with Dennis before the hearing, but he had selfishly wanted the reassurance of his love because he now feared loneliness more than he feared incarceration. Booker had reawakened his feelings and he was terrified of returning to the empty shell he had become when Amy died.
He feared becoming a ghost.
Booker rushed forward and grasping hold of the metal bars, he gazed frantically at his lover. “Why?!” he shrieked in a voice several pitches higher than his normal timbre. “Why would you do that?”
Biting down hard on his lower lip to prevent the tears that threatened to spill from his tortured eyes, Tom shoved his hands in his pockets and stared at the cement floor. “I had to,” he muttered, “I couldn’t live with myself knowing—”
“Knowing what?” Booker screamed back, his face twisted in anger. “Knowing that you killed Penhall? Why is it suddenly so important to you when you didn’t give a rat’s ass when it first happened? You waited until I fell in love with you to decide it’s okay to abandon me! You sonofabitch! You played me! You fucking played me!”
A single tear slid down Tom’s pale face and stepping forward, he wrapped his fingers over Booker’s and squeezed them tight. “I did this for you!” he croaked. “I want you to have the man you deserve, not a lying piece of shit who can’t face up to his mistakes. I need to pay for what I’ve done and I need to be punished because otherwise, I think I might lose my mind.”
As Tom’s impassioned explanation sank in, Booker’s anger slowly started to fade, but a sense of loss and self-pity quickly replaced the heated emotion. “But what about me?” he whispered, his dark eyes filling with blinding tears. “Five years Tommy… five… fucking… years! I don’t know if I can put my life on hold for that long.”
“I can apply for parole after eighteen months,” Tom mumbled, his heart sinking at the realization his lover might not be prepared to stand by him, “but if you don’t want to wait for me, I understand. You should do what’s right for you.”
Even though he could hear the pain in Tom’s voice, Booker was not in the right state of mind to offer him any comfort. Unraveling his fingers from the bars, he pulled away from his lover’s grasp and stared morosely at the dirty floor. “I don’t know what I want to do,” he muttered despondently. “I need time to think.”
Although his heart was breaking, Tom managed to keep an outwardly stoic exterior. “Okay, that’s fair. I’ll put you on the visitor list, just in case you want to see me. But if you don’t, I under… stand.” His voice faltered on the final word and he quickly turned away, hiding his face before the torrent of tears that had threatened to spill since his lover’s arrival began to flow freely from beneath his lids. His shoulders shook violently and he sobbed out his grief as he mourned the loss of the man who had stolen his heart. No matter what decision Booker made, the best-case scenario was that they would be apart for eighteen months, but for Tom, it might as well have been eighteen years because he was cynical enough to believe that absence did not make the heart grow fonder.
After several long minutes, he gradually gained control of his composure and wiping his face with his hands, he turned back around. But all he saw was an empty corridor, Booker was gone and he was once again, alone.
**
Wednesday November 8^th1989 (5.18 p.m.)
The first thing Tom noticed as he walked silently behind the prison guard was the cacophony of noise that echoed throughout the penitentiary. The brutal sound of male voices screaming, yelling and cursing ricocheted off every filthy wall, the deafening noise causing him to clutch his belongings a little closer to his chest, as though his meager possessions afforded him some protection against the terrifying racket. Sweat trickled down his back, soaking through his white t-shirt and his legs felt like they had turned to rubber. His mouth was dry, making it difficult to swallow and he was more petrified than he had ever felt in his life. Every fiber of his being told him to run, to scream at the top of his lungs that he had made a mistake and that he took it all back. But the tiny remnant of cop that lay buried deep within his soul reared its head and spoke to him in an authoritative voice. He had made his decision and now he had to deal with the consequences. No matter how much he wished he could change his mind, he couldn’t and therefore, he had two choices; he could break down and let every predator take advantage of him, or he could stand tall and fight to maintain his dignity. Fear made you weak and if he was to survive his sentence unscathed, he needed to man up and prove his worth to the other inmates. He knew he could hold his own in a one on one fight and he hoped that would be enough to send a message to the prisoners and guards that he was not a scared little boy. It was all he had and he hoped with all his heart that it would be enough to keep him safe.
When he entered the recreation area, dozens of curious eyes followed him across the room. The fine hairs on the back of his neck stood to attention and when several low wolf whistles echoed throughout the room, his face flushed beet red with embarrassment. Struggling to swallow down the large lump that had formed in his throat, he concentrated on not passing out. He felt exposed and he kept his gaze firmly ahead of him, refusing to make eye contact with any of the other inmates. Any sign of fear and he was a dead man. He needed to keep his composure and if he made it through the first night unscathed, he only had another five hundred and forty-six days to go until he was eligible for parole. It was a day-by-day proposition and as long as he stayed focused, he minimized the risk of falling prey to those who physically and mentally consumed those who were floundering.
He needed to be Booker.
The leader of the resident Latino gang laid down his pool cue and casually studied the newest member of D Block as he ascended the stairs to the cells. He smirked when he saw the look of determination on Tom’s flushed face, but he could see the panic in his dark eyes. The lad looked as green as they came and Miguel Mosco wondered how someone who was the very picture of innocence could have ended up in the worst division of the prison. Turning his head, he addressed his mano derecha. “Any word on the fresh fish?” he asked with a nod in Tom’s direction.
José Diaz's lip curled into a cruel grin. “It’s that baby-faced cop that made headlines,” he informed his leader. “He shot his partner during a drug raid. Hey check it out, it looks like he’s bunking with you.”
Mosco watched Tom enter his cell and a slow sinister smile played over his lips. “Well, well, well, isn’t that interesting,” he murmured softly and picking up his cue, he casually chalked the tip. “I want you to get the word out that no one touches a single hair on his pretty little head. Got it?”
“You’re gonna have to give ‘em a reason Jefe,” Diaz commented, not wanting to upset his boss, but knowing the men were going to need an explanation. “Not only is he fresh meat, he’s fucking gorgeous too. The boys’ll be linin’ up to make him their prag. Y’know how they like the dainty ones.”
“Tell ‘em it’s personal,” Mosco replied, his eyes remaining fixed on his open cell door. “This bitch is mine.”
**
Wednesday November 8^th1989 (5.20 p.m.)
Booker sat in the near empty bar, a glass of whiskey grasped in his hand. He was drunk and he no longer cared about anything except ridding his mind of every memory he had made with Tom. The ache in his heart was too painful to ignore, but he no longer had the energy to continue on with the charade that they had any kind of future together, that they had ever had any future together. Although inebriated, his mind was suddenly clear; Tom had manipulated him and he had been stupid enough to fall for it. He had offered him love and a place to stay when his friend had needed it most and he now cursed the foolishness of his actions. That Tom had voluntarily pleaded guilty because he was drowning in shame was lost on him, all he saw was a deceitful man who had broken his heart and his self-pity overrode any logical explanation for his lover's actions. His ego was dented; Tom had made a fool of him and that feeling never sat well with a proud man like Dennis Booker.
Downing the remnants of his glass in one large gulp, he motioned to the bartender to give him a refill. His only plan was to keep drinking until the pain stopped and as he stared blindly in front of him through blurry eyes, he made the decision that he was through being a patsy. Rather than allow another person to take advantage of him again, he would lock the door to his heart and throw away the key because if he did not allow himself to love, he would never have to deal with the pain.
- 24
- 25
- 26
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Chasing a Butterfly