Riven - Jerry B. Jenkins [170]
Brady just nodded. And when dinner came, such as it was, he forced himself to eat. Even after having fasted almost twenty-four hours, nothing tasted right, and it was all he could do to eat enough to make them leave him alone.
He put his tray in the slot and returned to his cot, lay in a fetal position, and closed his eyes. There would be no sleeping, and sure enough, someone from the end cell of another unit saw him and announced, “Check it out! The Heiress Murderer has assumed the position!”
“Curled up?”
“Yeah!”
“Crying?”
“Probably! Let it out, boy! Let us hear you!”
Brady did want to cry. He wanted to sob, to wail, to curse himself. He buried his face in his blanket, and from the depths of his soul came raspy, guttural moans. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” he screamed, muffling his cries, shoulders heaving.
He could still hear the others taunting and teasing and berating him. Brady no longer cared. He wanted to bellow and curse them, but that would be playing right into their hands. They already probably thought they had pushed him to this point. But they hadn’t at all. He had done it himself.
Loser, loser, loser.
He couldn’t remember having made a right decision for as long as he lived. Even when things temporarily went right—when he landed the musical role, or got a job, or helped the antigang unit, or turned over a new leaf at Serenity, or loved his woman the best he knew how—eventually he messed it all up.
And now this.
Who was he that he suddenly belonged in prison, condemned to die? It seemed he had moved overnight from mouthing off in grade school to lying despicable and broken on death row. How had it happened? How had he let it happen?
Beyond hope.
Suddenly Brady sat straight up and let his feet hit the floor. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He was through crying about it. He had brought this on himself. He was responsible, had done it, caused it all.
There was no one to blame but himself, and what future was there in wallowing in it? He had no future. Brady would cause no more trouble for himself or anyone else. He would park his mind in neutral and consider this a marathon, not a sprint. He would go through the motions one had to go through to do his time, and that was all.
Maybe he couldn’t sleep or eat like he wanted to, but he would go to bed at midnight every night and lie there until awakened for the first count of the day. He would eat his breakfast, all of it, regardless how long it took to force it down. He would eat all his meals, watch TV all day—just to know what time it was—would shower and shave when it was his turn, stand around in the exercise kennel during his hour, and speak to no one unless it was absolutely necessary.
If he found himself going stir-crazy again, maybe he would ask for the occasional magazine or newspaper or book.
And when the terrible images invaded again, as he knew they would, he would simply watch as they flashed past. Brady was as sorry as he knew how to be, but there would be no apologizing to anyone.
Strangely, Brady found he did believe. He believed in God and even Jesus. And he believed in hell. Something must have stuck in that stupid brain years ago from church and Sunday school and hymn sings at Aunt Lois’s little church, because there was no longer a doubt in his mind that he was going to wind up there, burning for eternity, just as Jordan North said he deserved.
When he settled into that routine, having essentially surrendered to his fate, Brady found himself flat, sad beyond measure. His only consolation was that he knew justice would be served. How did the cliché go? He had made his bed . . .
Mail call brought another note from Aunt Lois. She and Carl were still praying and still pleading with him to put them on the visitors list so they could come see him. At least she didn’t mention any more about knowing he hadn’t meant to do what he did.
Poor lady, he thought. She really cares.
Too bad he didn’t.
Brady tore the letter and the envelope into little pieces and tried to flush them down his toilet.