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Bradley

T he prison uniform came off slower than I expected.

I’d imagined it happening in one motion, ripping it off like a dirty band-aid, tossing it into a corner, maybe flipping it the bird for good measure. But in reality, I stood there for a solid minute, staring at it like it might bite me.

It was the ugliest thing I’ve ever worn, and the most familiar.

I stood in front of the bunk, barefoot on cold concrete, stripped down to my boxers.

White, regulation issue, practically see-through.

My release clothes were folded neatly on the top bunk.

The hoodie still smelled faintly like my old laundry detergent, clean linen and something citrusy I couldn’t name.

The jeans looked smaller than I remembered.

Or maybe I’d gotten bigger in here. Hard to tell with prison food and a near-constant fight-or-flight response.

The morning was quiet. Too quiet.

No yelling down the tier. No shouts of “Freebird!” or banging on cell bars. I’d expected something more dramatic for my last few minutes, but all I got was the hum of fluorescent lights and the occasional cough from two cells down.

My cellmate, Marvin, was lying on the lower bunk like a corpse at peace. Arms behind his head. Ankles crossed. He watched me with that same dumb grin he’d worn since the day they assigned me to this cell.

“Damn,” he finally said, breaking the silence. “Gonna miss that view.”

I didn’t respond. I was too busy trying to get my jeans over my thighs.

Two years of squats and stress had apparently turned my legs into tree trunks. The denim resisted with every inch, and I muttered curses under my breath as I tugged.

Marvin didn’t move. Just laid there, eye level with my crotch.

“Shit’s poetic,” he said. “Like watching a Greek statue get dressed. If that statue had a criminal record and a really punchable resting face.”

I yanked the waistband up in one sharp motion, zipping fast. “Could you not talk to me while I’m trying to reclaim my humanity?”

“Don’t be like that, Brad. I’m feeling sentimental.”

“You don’t have feelings.”

He tilted his head. “Sure I do. Right now, I’m feeling mildly horny and devastated by loss.”

I rolled my eyes so hard I nearly gave myself a migraine. I grabbed my socks next, sitting down on the metal desk chair bolted to the floor. The concrete was biting through the soles of my feet, and my toes were freezing.

“Jesus,” Marvin muttered. “I swear I’m not gonna see a bulge like that again in my lifetime.”

“Marvin…” I warned.

“Like, thick and long? It’s rare. You’re like a unicorn. A dick unicorn.”

“I’m leaving in five minutes. Can you at least pretend we were normal cellmates?”

“We weren’t,” he said, smiling. “We were cellmates with benefits.”

“That’s an extremely generous way of viewing things.”

He shifted on the mattress below, one elbow propped up now, body angling a bit closer.

I stood and reached for my shirt on the top bunk.

I felt Marvin move before I actually saw it.

His hand shot out fast from the side of the bottom bunk.

He cupped me right between the legs like it was muscle memory.

My whole body flinched like I’d touched an electric fence.

“What the fuck, Marvin?!” I stumbled back, hitting the concrete wall behind me.

Marvin just grinned wider and rested his hand back under his head. “C’mon. Just one last goodbye handsy. For old time’s sake. I’m grieving, man.”

I pulled my hoodie over my head, hard, the cotton catching for a second on my ears. I was hot suddenly, flushed with anger, embarrassment, disgust.

“We never had a thing,” I said, breath clipped. “It was survival. That’s it.”

He sniffed. “Still counts.”

“No, it doesn’t. You were a barrier to keep me safe from the other guys, not a boyfriend.”

He looked mock-hurt. “Wow. That’s cold, Brad.”

I shoved my feet into my sneakers like I was trying to kick-start my escape. “You’re the one who kept calling me Babycakes.”

“I thought it was cute!”

“I thought it was harassment.”

He let out a little sigh, as if I’d broken his heart instead of just his delusion. “You’re really not gonna miss me at all?”

“I’m gonna forget your name the second I walk out of here.”

Marvin chuckled, unfazed. “You say that now, but once you’re back out there in the cold, cruel world, getting ghosted by dudes with daddy issues and weird fetishes, you’ll remember me. You’ll remember that I appreciated you.”

“Appreciated my dick, you mean?”

“Well. Yeah.” He shrugged like that was the same thing.

There was a heavy pause.

“I’m serious,” he added, a little softer. “You were… not the worst.”

I didn’t know what to do with that. So I didn’t do anything. Just slung my duffel bag over my shoulder and stared out the bars.

That’s when the footsteps came. Slow, echoing. Steel-toed boots on cement. Then the familiar jingle of keys.

A CO appeared in front of the bars with a clipboard and a bored expression.

“Mitchell. Let’s move.”

Marvin sat up like he wanted a better look at my departure. His voice followed me as I stepped out of the cell.

“Guess this is goodbye, huh?”

I didn’t answer.

“You’re gonna miss me when you’re out there, Babycakes. Don’t pretend you won’t. Who’s gonna call you thick in a respectful tone?”

I kept walking.

“Call me!” he shouted.

I turned back just long enough to flip him off.

“Fuck off, Marvin.”

* * *

The clink of keys echoed down the corridor, the heavy footsteps of the correctional officer matching my own uneven strides as he led me through the sterile maze of the Queensboro Correctional Facility.

The walls were a tired gray, scuffed and chipped, like the place had been scraped by life itself and left to bleed quietly.

I kept my head down, one hand shoved deep into the pockets of my hoodie. The weight of my duffel bag felt oddly light compared to the invisible chains still wrapped tight around my thoughts.

Passing through locked gates and security checkpoints, I felt like I was walking a gauntlet—a last parade of humiliation before I was spat out into the world.

The reception area was brighter than the rest of the prison, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead with an anxious, impatient energy. It smelled faintly of industrial cleaner mixed with that unmistakable antiseptic sting that screams, you don’t belong here anymore.

The first blow came before I even had time to breathe.

“Strip,” barked a voice like gravel being dragged across concrete.

You’d think after nearly more than two years, they’d just let me ride off into the sunset with my sagging dignity intact, but no. Queensboro insisted on making sure I hadn’t smuggled a shiv or a souvenir out in my colon.

The room was cold, gray, and about as welcoming as a root canal.

In it stood a guard who looked like he’d been carved from nicotine and bitterness.

He had a horseshoe of white hair, thin lips pressed into a permanent scowl, and a nametag that said “S. GUNDY,” which seemed wildly appropriate for a man who spent his career inspecting buttholes.

“Clothes off,” he barked, like I hadn’t done this a hundred times before.

I sighed and started peeling. Hoodie first, then T-shirt, then jeans.

I hesitated slightly before dropping my boxers, because even when you’ve been in prison, even when you’ve done things to survive that you’d rather repress with bleach and therapy, there’s still something uniquely awful about having to stand buck-naked in front of a stranger who looks like he collects Civil War bullets for fun.

He made me lift my tongue, run my fingers through my hair, wiggle my toes, and then turn around. And of course—of course—came the command that haunts men across penitentiaries nationwide:

“Bend over and spread ‘em.”

“Really?” I muttered.

He didn’t even blink. “You could be hiding something.”

“Like what? A harmonica?”

“Bend.”

So I bent. And spread. And tried to leave my soul somewhere outside my body for the duration. His gloved hand did what it had to do, and I tried not to imagine the therapy bills.

When it was over, I stood there blinking back the sting of shame, butt cheeks clenching involuntarily, while Gundy snapped off the glove like he was bagging evidence.

“You’re good,” he grunted, like I’d passed a test. “Dress.”

“Thanks,” I said, voice dry. “Always dreamed of being validated by a man wrist-deep in my ass.”

He didn’t laugh.

Shaking, I dressed with slow, deliberate movements, every fabric fold reminding me how small and vulnerable I was.

A guard handed me a plastic bag containing my belongings. My wallet, my phone, and a few worn photos taped inside a small notebook.

“Let’s go Mitchell,” a CO snapped. “Don’t got all day.” I followed the guard out of the room and down a long hallway.

The room they led me into looked like a community college office: beige walls, motivational posters curling at the corners, a desk littered with manila folders, a dented coffee mug, and a tiny plastic cactus.

The fluorescent lights above buzzed with the kind of judgment only government buildings can afford.

Behind the desk sat a woman in her early thirties.

Ponytail. Wire-rimmed glasses. Smart outfit, professional, but not stiff.

She wore a navy-blue blazer over a maroon top that was modest and pretty at the same time.

There was something open about her face.

Kind. Alert. Like she actually gave a shit.

She looked up and smiled. Not the bureaucratic kind, either. It reached her eyes.

“Bradley Mitchell.” She said my name like she’d been practicing it. “Take a seat.”

I dropped into the vinyl chair across from her, bag resting on my lap like a shield. She picked up a folder with my name on the tab and scanned it, eyebrows lifting as she read.

“You look better than your file photo,” she said.

I blinked. “Uh… thanks?”

That blush started in her cheeks like a slow sunrise. She cleared her throat. “Sorry. That came out weird. I just mean, your file’s a mess. You, though… you look like you walked out of an ad for second chances.”

I raised an eyebrow. “And here I thought I’d been doing two and a half years in beige chic.”

She laughed. Full-on teeth and everything. “I appreciate sarcasm. It usually means someone still has a working sense of self.”

“Good to know my ego survived this hellhole.”

She flipped a page, her gaze flicking between notes. “Let’s get through the basics first. You’re being released on parole, no priors, nonviolent charge, early release for cooperation and good behavior.”

I nodded. “Yeah.”

“You’re required to meet with me once a week at the downtown parole office,” she continued. “First appointment is already on the books. You’ll check in, get evaluated, and…”

“Pee in a cup?”

“Exactly,” she said, smiling again. “Drug testing every visit. We also reserve the right to surprise test you wherever you’re living.”

“About that,” I said, shifting in my seat. “Still figuring it out.”

Her smile softened. “I figured. But I need that information ASAP. I have to know where to find you, Bradley. That’s not optional.”

“Understood.” I hesitated. “Just there’s not a bunch of people lining up to take me in right now.”

Brooke’s eyes lingered on me a moment too long. “I can imagine. But you’re resourceful. You’ll figure it out.”

I wasn’t sure if it was the way she said it, or the way her eyes flicked down to my mouth and back up again, but there was a definite shift in the air.

“You’ll also need to complete your PSA assignment,” she added, pulling out a form. “Bradley, you’ve agreed to make a video for the New York Department of Corrections. You know, the scare kids straight stuff. You’re the cautionary tale.”

“Right. The ‘don’t be like me’ speech.” I leaned back. “I’ll try not to traumatize the kids too much.”

She grinned. “A little trauma keeps them off drugs.”

I laughed. She did too, then she caught herself and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. That blush was back, and deeper this time.

“You… really are different from what I expected,” she breathed. Then she reached out and laid her hand on mine.

It was light, just fingertips at first. But it stayed there.

“I think you’ve got a lot of potential, Bradley.” Her voice dropped. “Like, a lot. I hope you see that, too.”

I blinked. Her hand was still there. Her thumb brushed my knuckles. That wasn’t standard parole procedure, I think.

I swallowed, just a little surprised at the warmth creeping into my face.

“Well,” I said, smirking. “You’re definitely the nicest person who’s touched me this morning.”

Her blush exploded across her face. She yanked her hand back and laughed, mortified. “God, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…”

“It’s okay,” I blurted. “You’re good.”

She bit her lip, then smiled again. Smaller this time, but somehow more real. “Just trying to make sure you land on your feet.”

“Well,” I said, standing as the door creaked open and the guards returned, “I’m better at landing on my back, but I’ll see what I can do.”

She choked on a laugh as I slung my duffel over my shoulder. One of the guards gave me a look like he didn’t get the joke, which made it better.

As they led me out, I glanced over my shoulder.

Brooke was still watching me. Still smiling. And still red in the face.

And honestly? It wasn’t the worst start to freedom.

Better to have a parole officer who blushes than one who breathes down your neck. And hey, she might’ve been a woman, but compared to Marvin, I’d give her a handsy any day of the week.

Two more guards stepped into the office, breaking the moment.

“Time to go,” one said.

I stood, awkward and unsteady but free, and followed them out.

From the exercise yard on the way to the gate, I glimpsed the elegant apartment building where me, Jack, and Liam once lived together.

The city looked the same, but I felt like a ghost wandering through it.

When we reached the front gate, the heavy metal doors swung open.

The sunlight hit me like a shock, bright, harsh, and completely unfamiliar.

I took a step forward, heart pounding in my chest.

I was free.

“What the fuck am I going to do now?”