At least he does so until the Underground begins slipping away. Of course Road would take the game into his head...
And then he's in jail. The cell's familiar enough--stark, but not uncomfortable. Solitary confinement. Apparently being pretty and seventeen in a prison full of murderers is dangerous, so the solitude is for his own good. The quiet's maddening, though. There's a book in front of Justin, but he's given up pretending to read it.
Richard's funeral was over. The trial was over. In four months, Justin's life would be over. Things were happening to fast and crashing too quickly. The wound from the shootout at the lodge wasn't even healed before the death sentence was passed down. If he hadn't confessed... if he hadn't trusted Richard or saved that bitch Cassie or--
Justin tried to shake himself out of the dream. It wasn't real. Not anymore.
Or was it?
The silence pressed closer and Justin found himself drowning in thoughts and self-pity. His friend was dead--lucky bastard--and he was alone. Well and truly alone. Justin's father hadn't come back for the trial, and his mother had told him in no uncertain terms that she wouldn't acknowledge a murderer as her son. Lisa... who knew where Lisa was. She vanished once he confessed to murder. She liked him when he was a victim, but once he became the aggressor, she was gone.
And he was alone with his thoughts. With mental images--with guilt and hatred and bitterness and fear. It hurt. The quiet, the complete isolation, the pounding thoughts--it all hurt more than the bullet. Justin tried to remain impassive. He hadn't cried since the day of his arrest; he wouldn't cry now, no matter how much it hurt.]
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timeasmymeasure
Action
Date: 2009-06-03 12:14 am (UTC)At least he does so until the Underground begins slipping away. Of course Road would take the game into his head...
And then he's in jail. The cell's familiar enough--stark, but not uncomfortable. Solitary confinement. Apparently being pretty and seventeen in a prison full of murderers is dangerous, so the solitude is for his own good. The quiet's maddening, though. There's a book in front of Justin, but he's given up pretending to read it.
Richard's funeral was over. The trial was over. In four months, Justin's life would be over. Things were happening to fast and crashing too quickly. The wound from the shootout at the lodge wasn't even healed before the death sentence was passed down. If he hadn't confessed... if he hadn't trusted Richard or saved that bitch Cassie or--
Justin tried to shake himself out of the dream. It wasn't real. Not anymore.
Or was it?
The silence pressed closer and Justin found himself drowning in thoughts and self-pity. His friend was dead--lucky bastard--and he was alone. Well and truly alone. Justin's father hadn't come back for the trial, and his mother had told him in no uncertain terms that she wouldn't acknowledge a murderer as her son. Lisa... who knew where Lisa was. She vanished once he confessed to murder. She liked him when he was a victim, but once he became the aggressor, she was gone.
And he was alone with his thoughts. With mental images--with guilt and hatred and bitterness and fear. It hurt. The quiet, the complete isolation, the pounding thoughts--it all hurt more than the bullet. Justin tried to remain impassive. He hadn't cried since the day of his arrest; he wouldn't cry now, no matter how much it hurt.]
[ooc: No, I'm sorry! For the... tl;dr, there.]