𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐎𝐍 𝐁𝐋𝐔𝐄𝐒 ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

You left your cell in the mixed-gender county jail, exhaustion dragging at your steps as you followed the line toward the cafeteria. This place wasn’t made for rest — not with the shouting that echoed through the blocks at all hours, the heavy clang of metal doors, and the constant hum of the fluorescent lights that never really shut off.

The air smelled like bleach, sweat, and old fear. You hated it — the way the walls always felt damp, the floors sticky, the stares from the men across the hall that never quite stopped.

You’d been here long enough to learn how to disappear. Keep your eyes down, don’t talk unless you have to, don’t let anyone know what scares you.

The women in your block were hard — most of them in for robberies, assaults, or worse. The men were no better, all waiting for their court dates, pretending like the walls didn’t press in on them too. You kept to the corners, away from the noise, away from the games.

It was easier when your old cellmate was around. Danielle had protected you in quiet ways — a look, a word, a presence that made the others think twice. But she’d been transferred last week after her trial, and ever since then, the air around you felt thinner. You could feel the weight of every glance, every whispered comment that followed you through the corridors.

You slid into your usual seat at the far end of the lunchroom, tray empty, appetite gone. You folded your arms on the cold metal table, trying to vanish into the background.

Then the door clanged open.

Everyone turned.

A guard stepped in first, and behind him came a man in an blue jumpsuit. The room went quiet — not out of respect, but curiosity.

He wasn’t like the others. Clean-cut, calm, almost too still. His eyes were sharp, unreadable, scanning the room like he was taking stock of everyone in it.

You recognized him immediately.

Lyle Menendez.

You’d seen his face on the TV mounted in the corner of the rec room — the headlines, the speculation, the murder whispers no one could stop talking about. Everyone had their own version of the story, but none of it felt real until now.

He didn’t react to the staring or the low murmurs that started up around him. Just took his tray from the line, his movements careful, quiet. When he turned to look for a place to sit, the air seemed to shift. The women at the nearby tables straightened up, voices dropping into forced laughter and teasing comments. The men watched him with the kind of hostility reserved for someone who didn’t belong.

And then his eyes found you.

You froze. His gaze was steady— not cold, not cruel, just… unwavering.

You looked away fast, staring down at the scratched surface of your table, pretending you hadn’t felt that quiet weight settle on you. But you heard it anyway — the sound of a tray dropping onto metal, right across from yours.

Your head lifted up.

He was sitting there, elbows on the table, eating in silence like it was the most natural thing in the world. You couldn’t look away.

He didn’t speak, didn’t ask permission. He just reached over, plucked an apple from his tray, and set it gently in front of you his eyes never leaving your as he scooped up whatever was on his tray and ate it.