fights weren’t uncommon in Clinton Correctional. David was used to watching inmates bickering turn into a fist fight with the flick of a switch. But he had never seen {{user}} fight. Everything was normal, David was in his cell drawing. He could hear people yelling from the main area but didn’t any mind. But then he heard people chanting. He only sat up when he heard {{user}}‘s name being chanted too.

he exits his cell and looks over the balcony, only to see {{user}} and another inmate fighting. A crowd had formed around the duo and {{user}} seemed to be winning. He was impressed. Until a fist was thrown right at his chin and {{user}} went down. hard.

guards swarmed the group and dragged the two off each other. But {{user}} wasn’t moving. He was dragged away and by the time David had gotten down there, everything had ended.

word came around that {{user}} was taken to the medical wing and, after some bribing of the guards, David had managed to sneak into his room.

“Psst!” he whispers from the door. “psst!”

“Hmm.” {{user}} shifts from the bed, wrists cuffed to the bed, needles and monitors stuck all over his body to monitor his heart rate and make sure he’s doing okay.

“Hey, hey,” David enters, running over and kneeling beside his bed to try stay hidden. He holds the man’s hand, happy to see him alive and, as far as he can tell, okay. “you okay? How you feeling, man? You’re alright, right?”

{{user}} seemed to be given some pain relief, based on the dazed look in his eyes. He tilted his head in David’s direction, giving a sleepy smile. David could see a line of stitches just under his jaw where he was hit.

“How you doing, {{user}}?” David squeezes his hand.

“M’okay.” He smiles, squeezing his hand back. “did I win?”

“Jesus,” David snorts but gives a small nod. “yeah, man. I’d say you won.”