Cut Ties (Paultryck Mpreg)

Part 7

Fuck, this is stupid...

They somehow expected him to pack the past eight years of his life into a fabric tote bag, like that was all he was worth, but here he was - cramming donated clothes, toiletries, and family photos into a bag that could hardly hold a week's worth of groceries. Did he really mean this little around here? They said they liked him, that they valued him. Was he really only worth one bag of shit?

He toyed with the handles of the bag, contemplating tying it shut. His eyes traced the self-made tattoos on his hands as he made his choice, swiftly marrying the handles as his eyes locked onto one tattoo in particular. The penmanship was perfect, far above his own, resting in the curve just before his right wrist.

Pat tu był.

Pat was here.

All his stick-and-pokes earned him the nickname Sketch, which attracted his closest friend he'd made behind bars, Ink. It's not too hard to imagine how he got his nickname, either. They came from similar backgrounds, and though their crimes were different, the pair really hit it off. It felt odd to be leaving him behind, but he still had a more time to serve.

Sketch didn't know what life in the outside world would be like, and it was making him beyond nervous, bordering terrified - he hadn't heard true, ear-ringing silence in eight years, for starters. He hadn't been alone, or had chewing gum, he didn't even remember what fast food tasted like, and he hadn't seen his family in that long either. They didn't visit him. It was complicated.

Mama called though, she said he was welcome to come home as long as he was willing to follow her rules. Considering he was following the most asinine commands for most of his twenties, that sounded incredibly doable. Maybe, if he was lucky, he wouldn't have to ask her permission to take a piss. He'd just wait a few days before making his way to her, get himself together first.

A firm knock on the dark, metal door.

"Czas minął, Sketch."

Time to go.

He cocked his head to the door, calling back quickly. "Tak, proszę pana!" Most of the prison staff exclusively spoke Polish, so he learned it was easier to respond to all of them in his native tongue, even if it was as simple as 'yes sir'.

He nodded to himself, doing one last visual check of his bed, the wafer-thin mattress tugged bare, with the orange quilt folded and ready to go. All the pictures were down, leaving lightened silhouettes against the worn yellow paint. His cell mates' bunks were in varying states, from pristine to utter disarray, and he felt a pang of sadness for them, leaving them behind.

"Przyjdziesz?" The guard pressed impatiently, knocking again.

"Wybacz," Sketch hurriedly apologized, cramming the quilt on top of the bag before hoisting it off the bunk. He set the bag between his feet and knocked, letting the guard know he was there before putting both hands in front of himself. "Sorry for the delay." He added, watching as the burly guard opened the door, handcuffs held tightly in one hand.

Thankfully, they'd sent one of the nicer guards to collect him. He had a funny mustache, and always stunk like cigarettes, but he smiled with Sketch, treated him like a person. His name was Marek.

"I'm almost sad to see you go, Sketch." Marek chuckled, clicking the restraints over his tattooed wrists. "However, I hope I never see you again. I'm sure you understand."

"Yes, sir." Sketch nodded, waiting for the okay to pick up his bag, an awkward feat with his hands bound. The officer looked him over, then peered into the room behind him, before gesturing for Sketch to step out into the hall.