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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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- 27
I apologise for any inaccuracies when using Spanish words and phrases throughout this story. I DID NOT use the Google Translator because we all know how hilarious those results can be ;) Instead, I did my own independent research. However, not everything on the internet is accurate so again, please forgive any errors within the text.
In peace,

OpenPage x
Wednesday November 8^th1989 (5.31 p.m.)
With his eyes screwed firmly shut, Tom stood in the middle of the cell and concentrated on calming his breathing. He continued to clutch his belongings to his chest, his reluctance to unpack an unconscious stalling technique; if he did not acknowledge that this was now his home, he would not have to accept the reality of the terrifying situation he now found himself in and he could pretend it was all just a bad dream.
When a light hand rested on his upper back, his shoulders shot up in fear and yelping in surprise, he shrank away from the touch. A soft laugh sounded around the small room and he inwardly cursed himself for showing fear. Opening his eyes, he turned around and stared with wide frightened eyes at the inmate standing next to him. The man was Hispanic, in his late twenties, with dark, smooth skin and bright, almond-shaped eyes that were an unexpected startling shade of green. A large jagged scar traversed his left cheek, but it in no way distracted from the attractiveness of his features, if anything, it gave him an intriguing mystique that made him appear even more alluring. But to Tom, his first impression was that he was the poster boy of a stereotypical gang member and he immediately raised his guard; one false move and he could find himself in a world of trouble.
“Hey,” the man greeted pleasantly, as he offered his hand. “I’m your cellie, Miguel Mosco, but all the inmates call me Jefe.”
Tom searched his memory for the meaning of the Spanish word and he eventually came up trumps. It was obvious that Mosco had the respect of his fellow Hispanic inmates to have risen to the rank of Jefe at such a young age and his boastful remark that all the inmates used the term to address him suggested that he was also in charge of the Block. The realization that he was sharing a cell with the most powerful man in the unit sent a shiver of foreboding down his spine. If he did not play his cards right, he was in for a world of trouble.
Mosco continued to stare at him with his inquisitive emerald eyes and Tom realized he needed to speak or risk looking like a fool. Shifting the load in his arms, he shook the outstretched hand. “Hanson… Tom Hanson,” he replied in a voice that trembled more than he would have liked.
Miguel’s smile broadened, revealing a set of perfectly even white teeth. “Welcome to D Block Tommy, the bottom bunk’s yours, make yourself at home.”
Hearing the familiarity of his pet name caused a lump to form in Tom’s throat and struggling against the emotion that threatened to bubble to the surface, he barely managed to keep his expression impassive. “Thanks,” he mumbled, terrified that the quaver in his voice would betray him.
But if Mosco heard the tremor, it did not register on his face and stepping closer, he laid a companionable hand on Tom’s shoulder. “C’mon, let me introduce you to the boys.”
A small smile twitched at the corners of Tom’s lips and tossing his belongings onto his bunk, he followed Mosco from the cell.
**
Wednesday November 8^th1989 (9.47 p.m.)
Tom’s body stiffened as a terrified scream resonated throughout the prison and turning over in the narrow bunk, he pulled his pillow over his head and attempted to block out the disturbing sounds. Ever since lights out, an assortment of screams, yells and loud grunts had filtered in through the bars of his cell and it did not take a genius to realize what horrors were taking place under the cover of darkness. The smell of testosterone-fueled sex permeated the air, sex that was both consensual and the kind that was taken by force. Someone continuously whimpered no, no, no, over and over, the pathetic mantra jangling Tom’s nerves until he felt like screaming SHUT THE FUCK UP! But the reality was that deep down, another piece of his soul was slowly dying. He knew all too well what it was like to have someone take what should only be given willingly and he pitied those caught in the violent cycle of daily rapes and abuse.
The springs above him squeaked and fearing the worst, his eyes flew open and his body froze in panic. But when Mosco remained on his bunk, he slowly released the breath he had not realized he was holding and placing his pillow back under his head, he closed his eyes and tried to relax. Long minutes slowly ticked by and just as the tenseness in his muscles began to ease, a quiet voice floated down from above like an intonation from the heavens. “Are you okay Hanson?”
Tom exhaled heavily and rubbing an anxious hand over his mouth, he gazed up at the sagging mattress that hovered just inches above his face. “Yeah, it’s just… is it like this every night?”
“Yep,” Mosco replied indifferently, “but after awhile, you stop hearing it. Lesson number one Chico, as long as it ain’t happenin’ to you, it ain’t your concern… got it?”
Although Mosco could not see him, Tom nodded his head. “Got it,” he whispered. It was a harsh lesson, but a valuable one. He had to accept that the only person who mattered was himself and as much as he wanted to help those suffering physical and mental torment, his cellmate was right, he needed to mind his own business, get through his sentence day by day as best he could and concentrate on not becoming a victim himself.
**
Thursday November 9^th1989 (6.00 a.m.)
A loud siren woke Tom from a fitful sleep and sitting up, he watched as the door to his cell magically slid open. Two bare legs hung over the mattress above him and he noticed a large V L tattooed on the left calf. In his first year at Jump Street, he had attended a seminar on gang tattoos and he remembered that V L stood for vida loca or crazy life. At that moment, it seemed an appropriate testimonial to his own fucked up life. Once upon a time, he had been Thomas Hanson, a heterosexual honor student who had graduated in the top two percent at the academy. He had been conscientious, hardworking and above all, law abiding, but now he was a murderous, former drug-using prostitute incarcerated for at least the next year and a half of his life and somehow, the inconceivable had happened; he had fallen in love with another man. His existence had become a parody of all of his former values and it would have been laughable if it were not so tragic. His life was crazy and the absurdity of it made him laugh aloud, however, there was an echo of bitterness to his mirth. He had alienated himself from the only person who had stood by him during his fall from grace and now he found himself friendless and alone.
Mosco jumped down from the upper bunk and scratching lazily at his crotch through his boxers, he gave Tom a friendly smile. “Time to get up Hanson, count’s in four minutes, then you get a half hour to shit, shower and shave, and then it’s breakfast at seven. You don’t wanna be late ‘cause the food congeals pretty quickly in here.”
Fear flashed in Tom’s dark eyes; it was the moment he had been dreading, stripping down naked in front of dozens of men and his heart pounded heavily in his chest. Sensing his anxiety, Miguel suppressed a smirk and stepping forward, he placed a companionable arm around his shoulders. “Don’t worry mi chico hermoso, you’re safe in here, no one messes with one of my boys.”
Unaware that mi chico hermoso translated to my beautiful boy, Tom was too relieved to question the implications of being one of Mosco’s boys and he smiled back gratefully. He had survived his first night and it seemed he and his cellie were going to get along fine. It was a huge weight off his shoulders and suddenly, the next eighteen months did not seem as daunting as they had twenty-four hours ago.
Gathering up his toiletries, he failed to notice the cruel glint in Mosco’s eyes. If he had, he might have had second thoughts about the man he considered his friend.
**
Five weeks later - Friday December 14^th1989 (9.07 a.m.)
Harry raised an eyebrow at Booker’s choice of inside eyewear. His partner wore the same clothes he had the day before and a pair of black Ray Bans thinly veiled his attempt to hide the effects of another night of heavy drinking. It was obvious to him that Booker had convinced himself Tom was not going to prison and now that the unimaginable had happened, the young officer was not handling the news well. He had tried on several occasions to offer a friend’s sympathetic support, but Booker had pushed him away, unwilling or unable to share his inner pain. However, as the days slipped into weeks, he could sense his partner slowly spiraling towards a complete breakdown and he knew he needed to intervene. Dennis was a good cop, but his career was on the line and he would be damned if he would sit back and watch his best friend destroy his life. The time had come to step up and tell him a few home truths. He knew he was playing with fire, Booker’s temper was volatile and unpredictable, but he could no longer sit back and do nothing; his partner needed his help.
He watched silently as Booker moved unsteadily between the mélange of desks, filing cabinets and law enforcement officers and when his friend finally collapsed into a chair, he gave him the once over. “Big night?”
Booker scowled and pulling off his sunglasses, he tossed them angrily onto the desk and glared back with bloodshot eyes. “I’m not in the mood for a lecture Ioki,” he growled. “So I had a few drinks last night, what’s the big fucking deal?”
Well aware that Booker’s definition of a few drinks meant staying home and getting hammered so he would forget how much he missed Tom, Harry decided that now was as good a time as any to say his piece. “I’m not going to lecture you Dennis, I’m worried about you, so I’m saying this from one friend to another… go and see him.”
A look of utter misery passed over Booker’s pale face and lowering his eyes, he stared at the floor. “I can’t,” he mumbled softly, “I just can’t.”
Finding himself rapidly losing patience, Ioki exhaled an exasperated sigh. “Why the hell not? You love him don’t you? He can’t visit you so go to him, let him know that you still care.”
Several minutes ticked by before Booker lifted his head, revealing a pair of dark, haunted eyes. “What if they’re doing things to him?” he whispered in a voice filled with anguish. “I can’t help him and knowing that I can’t help him is just too fucking hard. I’d rather be ignorant to his pain than feel powerless.”
Ioki’s expression immediately hardened and he glared at his partner. “Why aren’t I surprised? This was never about Tom, it’s all about you, you selfish sonofabitch!”
It was Booker’s turn to glower and narrowing his gaze, he gave Ioki a fierce look. “Why the fuck do you care?” he shot back angrily. “You don’t give a shit about him.”
“That’s bullshit and you know it,” Harry replied through clenched teeth. “I took him in when you beat him to a bloody—”
“IT WAS A FAIR FIGHT!” Booker screamed back and several pairs of curious eyes stared at them from around the crowded room. “HE HIT HIS HEAD BY ACCIDENT! I WOULD NEVER DO ANYTHING TO HURT HIM! NEVER! I FUCKING LOVE HIM YOU STUPID BASTARD!”
Harry’s expression softened. “Then show him,” he murmured. “I’m sure he’s missing you, just as much as you’re missing him.”
The anger left Booker just as quickly as it had appeared and his lower lip pushed into a soft pout. “Maybe,” he conceded moodily, “but I can’t deal with it right now. I’ll book in for a visit after Christmas.”
Realizing that he was not about to change his friend’s mind, Harry managed a halfhearted smile. All he could do was hope that Booker had not left the visit too late.
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- 26
- 27
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Chasing a Butterfly