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Title: Fragments
Author: learnthemusic
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Do I bare any semblance to Paul Scheuring? No. As stated on the footnotes of each page in this site, no author should be affiliated with Prison Break. And I don’t break rules.
Summary: The scrape of said chains hurt my ears as they become louder and the sound drags out for the remainder of this unwanted march.
Categories: Drama, Angst
Characters: Michael Scofield
Inspiration: Through Glass by Stone Sour
(A/N): Lately, I have loved my dreams. Therefore, I have been gathering ideas and inspirations for stories of either the Prison Break fandom or the Gilmore Girls fandom (I write both, now). This is my first attempt at writing Prison Break. This is your only warning. Please review.
(A/N2): Set toward the end of episode 1.05 "English, Fitz or Percy". Spoilers up to then.
And I have nothing against Puerto Ricans, considering I am one.
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‘This can’t be it’.

I find myself examining and reexamining such a simple statement. Four words, four syllables, one contraction, one capitalized letter, one apostrophe, one period and one heavy Puerto Rican accent. To top it all off, the Puerto Rican accent comes from the man who deserted me a few days ago, then begged to be let in. Again.

I try to focus on the bed I’m sitting on, noting its less than comfortable disposition and wishing I could stay here for the remnants of what is supposed to be the most successful breakout in the history of breakouts.

I was the ‘genius’; I was the ‘mastermind’. I should have thought about what I would do if I were to be transferred. I thought of everything else.

But as I stumble upon myself leaning against the wall that faces the bunk the Puerto Rican and I share, I realize this wasn’t part of the plan. Transfers slipped my mind as I hunted for clues that led to my plan, my brother’s escape.

However, Flexi-glass seems to obscure things from others (including myself).

……….

He swore to me, and I knew he was being truthful. It’s my only reason for such an elaborate scheme. Perhaps he was only trying to justify his actions and make me feel guilty for not believing him in the first place. And it worked.

So, I began to plan. I searched for the blueprints to Fox River and did the research. I wrote down which people in Fox River would help me escape: John Abruzzi, Charles Westmoreland (D.B. Cooper), and Sara Tancredi. I searched for the best tattoo artist in the state of Illinois.

And I put my plan to action.

I sacrificed two toes for important information I knew the mobster would need and I pretended to have Type I Diabetes for the sake of getting the doctor on my good side. I allotted one hundred dollars for PUGNAc and was choked for it. What more could a man possibly want?

A transfer. A fucking transfer that only put me behind schedule and caused the fucking schedule to be thrown out the window. And this transfer is only causing me to think in fragments. Fragments that just throw my entire world off balance and leave me struggling to remember any crucial information.

Crucial information that will help Lincoln escape on his own, as much as I’d rather help him.

But the atmosphere of this damn prison restricts me from digging into my brain or searching my tattoo for any damn answers. And it just causes me to loathe this situation even more.

………

The walk is long, cruel and deathly slow. The A-Wing is less than full and the chains on my ankles drag along the floor, creating unceasing echoes in my seemingly barren mind. The scrape of said chains hurt my ears as they become louder and the sound creeps out for the remainder of this unwanted march.

Prisoners stare at the man being escorted by a correctional officer down the hall and outside. I wish I were one of them, not the man.

"Hey, Fish! Where you going?" The hands that slap the gate make me wince and I look over for a millisecond (actually, three fragments of a fucking millisecond) to find one of my allies adorning a look of confusion on his face. I turn my head rapidly and look to my right only to disappoint further.

My brother. My brother, who has been chopped into a million fucking fragments stares at me with a look of sheer sorrow. My brother, who did so much for me after Mom died, the mom I barely knew that made me break into fragments of my own. My brother, the one who helped me pick those fragments off the floor.

And, here I stand, leaving his fragments on the bottom of the Chicago River and refusing to do anything additional.

Making amends for anything I should have done before, I whisper, "Sorry," in his direction, hoping he can, at most, read my lips. Tears sting my eyes as I turn away from him, threatening to leak out and create a puddle of my own sorrow and disappointment.

All because I failed him, like I promised myself I would never do, under any circumstance. So, I damn the fragments and shriek for the justice my only brother deserves.

I put on a stony expression as I focus on the cement underneath my feet, ignoring anything that might distract me from my final brainstorming. The gears in my head begin to turn and I curse them for not starting sooner.

Forcing myself to swallow past the knot forming in my throat, I look back at my brother once more. The picture of him staring at me with that sorrowful look will forever by inscribed in my mind’s eye. As much as I want to remember him with the joy he once held in his eyes, I come up short and I feel a pang in my heart for this brother that did everything he could for his own brother. Because I know I will miss him.

And, come May eleventh, at one past midnight, I will die along with him. He can die from the chair, but I’ll die from choking on tears I imagine flowing, without ease, down my cheeks.

A ragged breath shakes my body as I turn away from my brother for the last time and I feel the correctional officer’s pace quicken, as my burden weighs heavily on his shoulders.

The gates to Fox River look less than inviting as I approach them, one tear already down my cheek, my hand itching to wipe it away.

I don't have to turn back to know my fragments are spread all over the fucking ground.

I throw my head back to stare up at the almost-clear blue sky, scattered with wisps of cirrus clouds that almost remind me of a picture. I close my eyes only to find the fragments of my work pieced together and I know there is a way I’ll be saved.

For the sake of my brother, thank the Lord for Sinusitis.
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March 2011

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