Scott stares at the same beige wall he's looked at everyday for what had seemed like an eternity.
468 days down.
He wrings his hands a bit. 2 more hours of staring at that beige wall until dinner time. He's not sure how he knows the time, but he's hoping it won't last any longer than that. He presses his hands into his eyes, rubbing up to his temples and massaging there as he opens his eyes once again to the beige wall.
The same 17 cracks on the left side of the wall. The same yellow stain in the upper right corner. The same blood stains from the times he couldn't control his twitching.
He rubs his fingertips over the knuckles on his right hand, the cuts still prominent. He winces a bit and sighs. One of the officers walks by Scott's cell, and he can hear the sharp sound of his shoes hitting the tile, appearing and disappearing just as fast. He starts to fidget in the bed, not being able to control his thoughts.
How much longer will he have to listen to the sounds of the tile? Look at the blood stains he'd left on the wall? Feel his mistakes breathing down his neck?
Scott can feel the sweat beading down his forehead now, his toes starting to shift in his shoes, and his breathing starting to get shallower as he tries to control his speeding heart. No matter how many times he goes through this, he can never seem to get hold of himself quick enough. He sits up, gripping the sheets on either side of his legs and closes his eyes. It feels as though the increasing heat he can feel invading his entire body is radiating off of him- if he were to open his eyes at this very moment he would be able to see a red glow peaking just over the light blue of his clothing. Scott feels himself start to twitch more intensly; he wants to move, spasm, anything to distract himself from this feeling. His chest tightens and he starts to twitch his fingers, flexing and straightening them over and over.
Four hundred and Sixty-Eight. Four Hundred and Sixty-fucking-Eight!! FOUR FUCKING HUNDRED SCOTT.
The words pound over and over in his mind, and he starts to gag, hunching over and resting his forearms on his knees. He can't breathe but his body is trying so hard to make something, anything come out. It can't, and as he sits there twitching, heaving, and sweating, only one thought seems to cross his mind over and over.
Four Hundred and Sixty-Eight.
It doesn't seem real. He shouldn't be here, he should be at home with Cassie. He should be there to comfort her, to hold her, to make sure she knows that he loves her. He should be able to hear her laugh from the other room, and run to her when he hears her soft cries. He should be THERE. But he can't be, and who knows how she'll feel when he gets out. If he gets out.
Scott's chest starts to heave, his lungs barely catching onto breaths as he starts to choke. It hurts. His entire body is in pain, and it feels like there is a scream trapped in his chest that he can't release. He can feel the sweat dripping as he stands up, throwing his hands against the top bunk hoping it'll open his chest up, as he attempts to catch his breath. It shutters out of him quickly, his knees beginning to buckle despite having just stood.
He swallows a few deep breaths and tries to stop thinking about anything but gaining control once again, starting with his breathing. In-two-three-four, Out-two-three-four. He can feel the sweat starting to dry, matting his hair to his forehead. He closes his eyes and pictures his daughter, smiling, laughing. He wavy brown hair falling beside her eyes as her laughing settles. She is so beautiful. Scott manages to pull himself down to earth again, his arms trembling as he slowly sinks back into the bed.
He wipes the sweat slowly off of his forehead, pushing his hair back to his head and resting on his elbows. It's over, but for how long? He tries to clear his mind, tries to keep himself calm. He can feel his heart starting to slow, and a shaky breath escapes his lips as his tensed muscles start to relax. He layed back against the bed once more, feeling his mind wander back to Cassie. His daughter, who he loved more than anything in the world. What would she think if she could see him? How is she going to feel when he comes back? What does she think of him now?
He feels his eyes start to swell as his throat pulls tight. He sits there quietly, tears sliding down the sides of his face, staring at the beige wall.