Read Online Untold Damage by Robert K. Lewis - Free Book Online

because he’d thrown up all over them. Another prisoner—one of the trusties who walked around mopping the corridors and doing general cleaning—had given him a towel at one point to help him wash up some. He was a short, wiry-looking guy. Latino. Intelligent eyes. Black hair shaved close to the skull. Small mustache and thin goatee. Looked to be about twenty-five or so. Forearms sleeved with jail tats. He even brought Mallen some water to keep him hydrated. When Mallen asked why he was helping him, the trustie just pushed up his left sleeve. Showed him the track scars in the crook of his elbow.
    â€œThe Lord tells us to look after each other, my brother,” the man said to him. “Simple as that, vato .” He then rolled up Mallen’s coat for him. Stuck it under his head for a pillow.
    â€œThanks, man,” Mallen told him. “What’s your name?”
    â€œGato. My friends call me Gato.”
    â€œWhat are you in for?”
    â€œ B&E. Been here a year. I’m almost home, man, and I ain’t never coming back. Had enough of this shit. Be out tomorrow night. Free to fly.”
    He relaxed his neck muscles. Seemed like the first time in years he’d done so. The gesture of Gato rolling up his coat for him made him feel, if only for a moment, less alone. It was a gesture he wanted to remember for the rest of his life. “You know a bar called the Cornerstone?”
    â€œYeah, man. I used to hang there, once in awhile. Why?”
    â€œThe name’s Mallen. When you get out, go there if you need anything. Any help, or anything. I used to be good at helping people. Might be good again, I hope. Leave a message with the bartender. Bill’s his name. He runs the place. I’d like to do what I can for you.”
    Gato put out his hand. “Thanks, bro. There’s a good heart, beatin’ in that chest of yours.”
    Lifting his hand was like lifting a concrete block, but he managed. Gave Gato’s hand a weak shake. The trustie then picked up his mop, put it over his shoulder. “Try to keep in your mind what my padre always used to tell me,” Gato said.“Sometimes the darkest moments of our life give us the brightest chance at our redemption.”
    Mallen liked that. Smiled the first real smile he could remember in a long time. “Keep your head down, brother.”
    â€œThe Lord looks after me. I’m good,” Gato replied as he genuflected. He then left the tank, the door clanking shut behind him.
    Mallen closed his eyes as another spasm of cramps racked his body. He was on fire. Breathing was hard. It felt like he’d vomited up every last bit of liquid he’d ever drank. Even his eyes burned. Every time a cramp hit him, it was a giant’s fist low in the stomach. Cries were ripped from his cracked throat; he moaned that he wanted to die. He was only vaguely aware of the answering catcalls and laughter from the drunks around him.
    One time he woke up and found himself staring up into the pockmarked, scabby face of a bearded man who smelled of sweat, old wine, and urine. His coat was in the man’s hands.
    â€œYou won’t be needing this, friend,” he told Mallen through a grin of yellow, rotting teeth. “You look like you’re gonna be dead, so I’ll give this a good home.”
    Mallen tried to rise, but no go. He could barely move his mouth to speak. “Take it with my blessing, asshole,” he muttered. He turned over and tried sleep, but couldn’t. His dreams were filled with visions of Eric’s body lying in an alley, hypos sticking out of his arms, chest ripped open by bullets.

    Someone was shaking him awake. He groaned as he opened his eyes. Retched at the smell of dried vomit. Took him a moment to realize the smell came from him.
    â€œGod, I need a shower,” he said to no one in particular. A young uniformed police stood over his bunk. The kid was picture perfect, not a hair out