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Eleven Heartbeats

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He’s not hungry. Honestly, he can’t really remember when he had an appetite. Must’ve been before shit went down and he doesn’t want to think about that. It’ll only make the tasteless hot cereal even more difficult to swallow.

Being ignored should be nice. They’re fucking nazis after all, but isolation has always eaten him away quicker than fire consumes a dried out forrest. He’s simply not good on his own and he picks about the meager breakfast until he’s simply tired of pretending he’s gonna finish it. He’s the one who should be finished. You don’t waste food on a corpse and Juice suddenly just shoves the tray to the empty spot before him, folds his hands onto the table and waits.

He can’t leave before his cellmate allows it and he doesn’t. Tully notices, sure, but he’s not giving any sign acknowledging his punk’s wishes to leave. Of course he isn’t.

“Snitch!”

The voice is unknown and comes from behind him. But it’s not Juice who’s tensing, it’s the nazi and he makes a small gesture for whoever spoke to Juice’s back to approach. Juice doesn’t look up entirely, only casts an eye at the man who looks less than happy about whatever the nazi whispers to him. He leaves though and doesn’t say anything else. Juice catches a grim light in the shot caller’s eyes, not directed at him, but simply floating over the cafeteria like a sick shadow.

Don’t touch, don’t address, don’t fucking look at my property.

Then, just like that, it’s gone and replaced with a look of… it’s not grim, at least. Or even condescending. Just those catlike eyes, neutral, like the shot caller has literally no opinion about the spic punk he’s gotten as a cellmate. Juice doesn’t know, doesn’t fucking want to know why it makes him wanna cry.

But he doesn’t. He sits through the breakfast without touching it, not demonstratively, just passive on his seat and when the shot caller and his nazis are done and get up, Juice follows suit. He’s a shadow too and if Tully wants to go outside, then his spic punk will too.

Juice doesn’t see the looks and if he did, he wouldn’t be able to read them properly. Everyone knows he’s an ex-communicated Son and he expects nothing but the despise he deserves, but not all looks are from disgust, hatred or contempt. Some are confused, others surprised and there’s even a couple of admiration. Because despite being a rat and a punk, the bitch who’s ass belongs to the AB shot caller, Juice moves with a kind of fuck off and fuck you vibe that you only really see in those who’ve given up and doesn’t give shit about anything, least of all appearance, anymore.

Tully does, though. The rapist finishes his tray and then waits a few more minutes for his men to finish before he raises and they follow, Juice as the last in line, of course. He doesn’t care, he justs wants to go back to the cell and pretend he’s still gonna meet Mr. Mayhem soon. It’s truly irony, that what used to be his nightmare, has become a daydream.