“Could I have a pen?” I ask.

Only things visible through the gaps between these iron bars are the fluorescent lights hanging from the ceiling and the other cells just a few feet across from me, blinding white everywhere else. Besides the few hours of recess we get to stare endlessly into the sky. Some color in the place wouldn’t hurt, would it?

“Request denied, step away from the door.” I hear from the side, just outside my cell. 

“What am I going to do? Stab someone with a pen? That’s not the reason I'm in here…” I grab onto the bars. “Look… officer? You're an officer right? My request for a journal was granted. I can’t use it, if I have nothing to write with.” Prepping for what’s to come, I look to the padded floor.

“I said back away from the door, senile old man!” No hesitation and with a swift whip and firm SMACK! from his baton. My already swollen knuckles once again pulsating with pain. 

I kneel from it, clenching my hands together. The officer now at my door looks in through the bars, towering me, gazing at me, places a dark blue tinted pen in the gap between two of the bars.

“You have 30 minutes with it.” He states and walks away.

“Thank you…” I mumble under my breath. Taking the pen and retreating back into a corner of the padded room. With jittery, bruised hands I open the leatherbound journal and with a satisfying click I begin to write.

My name is, Ike J Harbor. 

Pain seizes my hand even from such a tiny amount and I’m forced to let the prussian, silver highlighted pen fall into the crevasse between the backside of the cover and the first page. I stretch out my shaking hand, clenching and unclenching it, getting the muscles moving no matter how much my knuckles scream in pain. Moments later, I grasp the pen once again and continue.

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

I am 61 years old and I admitted myself here 30 years ago. I used to be a private investigator for a police station with a soft spot for liquid courage and stupidity as a constant demon clung to my every move. I made the worst decision of my life, driving drunk continuously, endlessly until it led me to...her.

30 Years Ago

It was a damp cold night, the rain trickling like a drunk man’s piss. Having just been thrown out of my third bar for being too “disruptive” I lay in the middle of the street, next to a shattered bottle of whiskey.

Wobbling my way back up on to my feet, I tower back and forth towards my car. Slamming the door shut and revving the engine, I began to drive to find another bar. Multiple honks and flashes of passing headlights later I vividly awake to an airbag to the face.

Still mildly drunk even after the apparent crash, I fall out of my vehicle passing out once again.

Ironically, probably the calmest awakening I’ve had in… a long time. I leisurely make my way onto my feet, with beer in hand. Which I got from somewheres. Taking a sniff, I realize it’s my piss bottle. Disgruntled, I chuck it into the woods.

“Aw, man…”

My vehicle, stabbed by a sign. The engine has gone cold and is seemingly out of gas.

I’m stranded. 

Padding myself down to check for my phone, to see if I have any sort of a signal.

“No signal and 5% left, you’ve got to be…” Highly annoyed, I slam my fists onto the top of my vehicle. “FUCK!”

With a heavy sigh, I put my phone back into my pocket for later use. I sweep the inside of the car to see if there’s anything else that I might want before I begin to wander in hopes for a bar. Finding my wallet, the now useless keys and a pocket knife that I don’t remember having.

“The spare” I mumble, popping the trunk and opening the floor. I grab my spare 9mm with two rounds of ammo.

Never know what I’ll run in- speaking of which, where the fuck am I?

I spiral around taking a glance at my surroundings. Heavily wooded area, cracked concrete road with brown pine needles layering the grass. Not to mention the obvious, which is my severely fucked car and the sign, which did the fucking.

I finally decide to take a glance at the sign, which is seemingly old, wooden, damaged from various things, with remiments of paint still residing, the sign reads…

Meredith.