Nobela ni Hxn

QuincyI never realized how loud silence could be until Jordan was gone.It’s been four days.Four days without him breathing beneath me on the bottom bunk.Four days without that god-awful humming he does after lights out.Without him mocking my posture or tossing a protein bar at my head when I skipped breakfast.Four days in a cell that feels colder now.It’s not like we talked all the time. Hell, most days we barely spoke unless one of us needed something. But there’s something about his presence—loud, unfiltered, alive—that filled the space.In his absence, the walls feel tighter. The ceiling lower. My thoughts louder.He had his own brand of humor that distracted me from the fact that I’m all alone here.Now that he’s been placed in another cell—now that my distraction is gone—I’m left with a rush of wild, heart-wrenching thoughts.Dad, going ghost on me.Stacy, disappearing like Aang.And it’s worse at night.I read the same page of my book five times last night. Couldn’t tell

Jordan There’s something about blood on your knuckles that calms you down. Maybe it's the color. My favorite color. Maybe it’s the heat that comes with it. Maybe it’s the pain attached. Maybe it’s the fact that, for once, the world stops asking you to explain yourself and just lets you burn. Roach made a mistake. I gave him a warning. For someone who is sane is enough. Instead he went on step on my fuckin’ foot. I'm so glad he saw all the warnings and chose to walk through trouble. I am that Trouble. So yeah. I painted the yard with him. I made sure to burst his fucking face so he will be terrified of his own reflection. Highly satisfying. The release of pent-up anger. Now the guards were dragging me away like some stray dog that got into the neighbors’ chickens. One of them had his elbow jammed into my back like he was trying to break a bone. Another kept shouting in my ear like I was deaf. I wasn’t deaf. I was done. These guards—most of them—are so quick to put

QuincyAfter having spent a month here, I have come to realize that there's something deceptively peaceful about prison mornings. The serenity despite hostility. The quiet rustling of the thick trees in the woods nearby—a gentle reminder of the miles you are away from home.It's Friday. The last day of June. Not like dates mattered anymore…it did though, but it's best to never count your days in here. For someone like me, I would feel the earth spinning so slowly—if I kept on counting like I did when I got in. It's Friday morning. Yard workouts. Out of every activity we do in this for prison, this is the cream of the crop.The yard was painted in muted light, sun barely warming the concrete, but the chill in the air did nothing to tame the beasts it enclosed. The tension in here had texture—you could breathe it in, taste the bitterness on your tongue, feel it settle heavy in your chest. But still, it remains the best place to be the cell. You're not trapped by four thick walls. Black

QuincyA whole day and a night had passed. Jordan and I lived mute in our little confines.But guys’ beef only lasts for a short time. So yeah, we finally began speaking.And by speaking, I mean we exchanged glares, and muttered passive-aggressive insults across the cuboid like we were a couple stuck in a toxic marriage we didn't signed up for.The air between us remained tensed, filled with everything we didn’t say hovered over our heads, waiting to drop like a busted ceiling tile.But somehow… we survived it.I didn’t apologize for snapping.He didn’t apologize for stepping in.Instead, the silence wore itself out.He’d watch me read my boring books, while I’d look from my peripheral view at how this guy did more than a hundred push-ups without taking a break.He started tossing me commissary snacks again. I handed him a clean towel once after showering.We sat in our usual bunks—him below, me above—and while the quiet didn’t become comfortable, it stopped feeling like war.Small st

Jordan In my twenty-eight years of life, I’ve never met anyone as…boring as Quincy.He moves through life like a fucking ant on a factory line—purposeful but predictable, following the same invisible trail day after day, never pausing to wonder if there’s more beyond the hill.Man’s like an ant with OCD and a watch—up before the bell, bed tight like he’s expecting inspection, brushes like he's got a date with the mirror or he'd got a hot chick at the board meeting who occasionally bats her eyes at him, slowly eats his repulsive meal—as he had called it–in the same damn spot (on the top bunk) He takes his shower and drowns himself into both current and old newspapers—anything to keep me from talking to him. Yes, he's been avoidant from the first day I came. Not just to me, but the rest of the inmates. Guards, as well. But hey, respect. Dude’s got his own rhythm in a place built to mess you the fuck upBut then again, there's only one of his tasks I like to join him in. The part wher

Quincy It's dinner time, As usual, the prisoners jeered loudly upon seeing the guards roll in the food tray. Most of them complain of not having enough food to keep them standing. Some, in dying need to detoxify their guts. The guards—turning on deaf ears—dropped the food through the hatch like we were zoo animals. I watched the metal tray hit the floor with a metallic clack, the contents jiggling like something that had once been alive and very, very sad. The feeding system in Blackbridge Correctional Facility is the last thing I would ever get used to. “Dinner’s served, sweetheart!” one of the guards called out, sounding entirely too gleeful about it. It was the same guy with the sharp-eye and a long scar across his cheek, who called me the ‘fund guy’ the day I arrived here. I could hardly tolerate Jordan calling me those persky names, the was doing same. Maybe I think I wouldn't mind risking my six months jail sentence just so I could plunge my fist into his face.Jordan was alr