"I think I dozed off..."
Staring at me like I'm some sort of mad-man, he climbs out of the drivers side door and lets me out. My wrists are roughly stuffed into cold handcuffs. I begin to shake again.
A small posse of police officers and security guards lead me through a variety of receptions and corridors painted in a variety of shades of beige. At each reception we are instructed by a heavily tattooed individual to remove any belongings from out pockets and show our ID.
My ID simply reads "Gerard Way. Prisoner."
I had been stripped of all of my belongings back in Jersey. Without the ordinary, insignificant things that I usually keep close to me, I suddenly feel much less human. Though, thankfully I had at least been permitted to hold onto the lock of Rachel's hair that I keep tied in a little red ribbon in my inside jacket pocket, on the grounds that it might help me to repent.
For the first time since entering the formidable concrete building, topped with its glittering hat of angels hair and razor wire, we are met by a door. Thick and grey, with a small round porthole cut into it just above my eye-level.
On the other side of the heavy door,I am met by what feels like a solid wall of ice cold air. We have finally entered the wing of the building where the prisoners live, and die, probably. I am led along a narrow passageway, with cell doors on either side. Each door graced with a cell number and yet another little round window - though these are reinforced with chicken wire. I am reminded of the classroom windows in my old school, which had been strengthened in the hvery same way, to prevent stray kick-balls interupting class.
The security guard opens the last door on the left with a huge, jingling bunch of keys, and stands over me, breathing down my neck until I gingerly step over the threshold.
"This cell is to me your new home. I want you to treat it with respect as you would your own home. This is your new cellmate, Frank. You now have an hours free time before dinner in which to settle in and get to know eachother."
He leaves the room with a loud slam.
This room too is freezing cold, and I shiver slightly as I examine my surroundings. There is a sink, a door which leads into a tiny toilet, a cabinet and a set of bunk beds.
I can't be sure why, but as the figure, sitting, reading on the bottom bunk raises his head to meet my gaze my heart races. He is smaller than I would have expected, probably qiute a few inches shorter than myself. He has black hair, which falls neatly over one of his eyes, heavily tattooed arms and a silver lip peircing, glinting in the light from the little barred window.
In all honesty, I had never seen a more beautiful man in all my days.
"Hi, I'm Frank!" he smiles kindly, holding out his hand for me to shake. I notice lettering tattooed across his knuckles, but I can't tell what it says. As I take his hand, goose-pimples spring into life on the back of my neck.
"Aha!" He squeals enthusiasticly, giving me a fright. I step back a little in suprise before he carries on, "I'd know that accent anywhere! You're from Jersey, aren't you!"
I laugh, genuinely. Frank reminds me of a small excitable puppy.
"Yes! Belleville to be exact."
"Aaaah! Me too!" He smiles down at his lap as he carefully sticks a paperclip into his book to keep the page and sets it down on the cabinet. From the cover I read that it is 'Catcher in the Rye'; one of my all time favourite books.
I can see that Frank and I have alot in common.
Suddenly the idea of being on Death row doesn't seem so misserable, with Frank by my side.