Coalescence ➳ H.S.

One: The Heist

Harry's POV

I looked abhorrent.

My hair was slick with grease and smelled of nicotine, and facial hair became part of the dress code with the lack of grooming anybody did behind bars. I stared at myself in the mirror and cringed at what I had become within the last three years—my face was sallow, my limbs were bony, and I was sure I frequently smelled of processed ham and mashed potatoes regardless of how many times I showered.

I'd be lying if I said I hated prison. Of course, they stuck me in a building with people who performed petty crimes—tax frauds, arson, thefts—so the personalities I came across weren't stereotypical felons (and therefore nothing remotely entertaining ever went on), the food tasted like Plasticine and the inmate down the hall named Archie, a big, burly fellow with a severe under bite and a double chin, constantly called me "pretty boy" even though I had given up on shaving a year ago. Still, I couldn't hate it if I tried.

I sat with the same table of people every day during mealtimes—Leon, the man who set fire to his ex-wife's home while she was out purchasing groceries because he didn't like the colour of the curtains that her new husband had picked out; Valentin, who got far too drunk on his birthday and urinated on somebody's car ("Who gets white cars nowadays? It was such an ugly thing, I did it a favour by pissing on it," he told the corrections officer); Alexei, by far the youngest of us at the age of eighteen, went au naturel to his senior prom after smoking too much pot; Felix stalked some supermodel that was in town promoting her new line of shoes (apparently he managed to sleep in her hotel bed for approximately seven minutes before she woke up and punched him in the face too); and Andrej, the male prostitute.

However, though they were my friends (or as friendly as we could get in a prison), I didn't tell them about my breakout plan. It was quite sad to depart from them though, so I figured one last lunch wouldn't hurt.

"One day," I began, my mouth full of hash and boiled carrots, "one day we'll get out of here."

The rest of the guys looked at me with raised eyebrows, trying to decide if my remark was hopeful or stupid.

"We're in here for a year—two years, tops," Alexei replied, downing his corn niblets before pulling out a lighter and his pack of cigarettes.

"Yeah, but poor old Harry's been in here for three," chuckled Leon, who arrived at the prison about six months after I did, "and he's got one more left to go."

Little did he know that he was quite wrong.

"Conning all the wrong people, huh Harry?" Felix laughed. The rest of the table joined him. "You'd think they'd feel bad for him—he's been writing poetry for his girlfriend since he got in."

"Laugh all you want. At least I didn't get arrested for voluntary prostitution," I replied, grinning at Andrej who scoffed and took a drink of his water. I finished my food, waited until exactly 1:26 PM, then waved goodbye as I set my tray in the collection area. Surely they were wondering why I was so oddly behaved. It didn't matter though.

A corrections officer got up to escort me back to my cell, but I had other places to be. I had timed my exit to correlate with the near-blind woman's schedule.

"Mind if I stop by the bathroom, love?" I asked. She rolled her eyes and nodded, allowing me five minutes of my own time. Five minutes was all I'd need.

I hurried off, casually making my way to the very last stall and locking myself in. For the last three years I had worked towards acquiring scissors, a razor, a mirror, and a prized corrections officer's (long sleeved, thankfully) uniform, complete with the shoes (the rookie left it all on the sink while he was peeing a few weeks ago), and slipped them into the ceiling panel directly above. It was high time that I did this—I was going to break out.