Page 2 of These Tears

I really should try therapy again.

Grunting inelegantly, the guard jerks his head for me to follow.

As I fall into step behind him, our shadows begin stretching across the corridor floor, and my nerves cinch tighter. Every step feels like a fresh entry in the ledger of my own stupidity.

My sister always said I had the devil’s own stubbornness and that it would get me hurt one day. I bet she didn’t think the lighting would be fluorescent, the paint would be peeling, or that the devil would come in shackles.

A camera pegs me from the corner, blinking red as if to warn me off while I still have the chance.

Which is exactly the kind of feeling that keeps me right where I am. Photographing trauma for a living, unfortunately, does not qualify me to bring a lens into His Majesty’s prison, even for this programme. Grudgingly, it had been the strongest reason for my application.

‘You’re in Visitation Room Seven,’ George mutters, pointing ahead. ‘Your placement’s been authorised for non-contact supervision.’

I blink up at him in question.

‘A probable long-timer. Restraints authorised. Don’t let the charm fool you,’ he clarifies succinctly.

I stare at the tips of my boots. My silence gives me away and George catches on, filling in the rest: my new best friend behind that door is on remand.

Even with what little I’d managed to glean from his file, that still lands wrong. Remand is meant to be temporary. Seven years of it could only mean extension after extension, each one argued before a judge.

Goodness. His case is so tangled it has become its own organism.

And that was one of the splinters that lodged into my brain when the Programme Coordinator slid a stack of summaries across the desk – options on paper in the shape of broad case categories, as if people could be shortlisted like equipment.

I worked through them one by one while she explained which placement risked which part of my mind. I weighed offences and notes until that file turned from risky case to pulsing question.

I tell myself it wasn’t anything specific that made me go for Crane – definitely not the way the light caught his pale blue eyes in the photo attached to his file, turning them almost translucent.

Definitely not.

Restraints, George mentioned.

I shelve that somewhere between cheating fiancé and compulsive self-saboteur. Because what else would explain me signing up for a programme that pairs emotionally derailed civilians like me with prisoners no one wants to be near?

Jesus Christ, I could’ve taken up fucking pottery when therapy shot blind.

Or just… disappeared quietly into Greenland with my camera and Riesling.

Instead, I’m here chasing ghosts in my black jeans and an AC/DC shirt I may have overgrown – because I wasn’t sure what the dress code was for meet your last mistake.

A barred door clanks and sighs open, ushering me into a secure visitation room so barren that even my most optimistic creative gene retreats in horror.

The concrete has never seen paint save for the dark stains climbing partway up the walls. If I didn’t know I was in prison, I’d think someone had begun converting the room into a medieval dungeon and abandoned the project halfway through.

My eyes swipe sideways and clock him in the middle of the open space.

Elias Crane.

He sits turned away from me, thick black hair dragged back as if every rebellious curl has been bullied into obedience with a promise to come apart the moment he makes one wrong movement.

As my gaze falls to his feet, recognition rattles through me: chains span from his wrists to his ankles, threaded through a steel ring bolted to the floor. My hand jerks towards the camera bag that isn’t there.

Pointless reflex.

Irritating.

‘Restraints authorised. Don’t let the charm fool you.’ The guard’s words echo in my ears. Seems like they really don’t take chances with Crane.