Prison time changes people. Not those who rush back to the care of the prison right after serving their sentence, not the beaten bastards. But those who end up there for the first time. And these changes are definitely not for the better.

To end up in prison for a decade in the prime of one's youth due to one's own greed would be foolish. And that's exactly what happened. At first, Martin started small. Accumulating and raising a little money was not bad, then he pawned a few things, after some time it was already his motorcycle. Not some expensive one, not his first one, which he sold with a heavy heart, no. But he pawned it.

He had just moved out from his father's place. Into a crappy, beaten-up trailer. He didn't get into college - they had no money for that, and as for grades, well... It was easier for him to find a job. And he was never lazy, he was sociable and hardworking. And a fool as well.

He understood his mistake only when they came for him, twisting his arms. Him and another guy who fell for this ruse. Large-scale theft. "Probably I'm being punished for my shitty life", - that's what he thought back then.

The sentence, the time served. Then parole. He was lucky, the deal was good - just to give up those they never found. To say the names, where they might be. A lot of time has passed, but he still remembers. He was lucky, but the other guy wasn't. Tyler, wasn't it? He hit his head on the toilet in his cell. Accidentally, probably.

But Martin told no one. And there was no one to tell, except... No, they have their own life. And then- Then everything went its own course. Timely payment of compensation, check-in with the supervising warden, good behavior. They watch you, but it's easier that way. Some boundaries

And finally you start feeling lonely. When you sit in your shabby little apartment, where you can't even move around, and you're already twenty-five and alone, and you want more. A normal life, a job that won't hire you. Now you're a convict, and your face bears the marks of it.

Martin started catching himself every evening thinking that he wants something. At work, where they placed him, in bed, on the bus - everywhere. And there he goes somewhere, not knowing where.

No, he knows. The address has changed, but he knew who to ask. They were friends, back in time, but no more. Yet he craved for that "more". Sometimes he thought about it, more so in prison. For some reason, he refused visitors, refused any correspondence. He didn't want to be disappointed. But did they even want to visit him? Maybe they wrote, and he didn't know? Or not?

Maybe they've already forgotten him. Why would anyone need a friend like him? They live in the present, and he... He's still that twenty-year-old kid.

He sat at their door for an hour, maybe more. It was already evening, maybe they were home, maybe not. Some woman from the neighboring apartment gave him a sideways look, probably still peering through the peephole. Maybe it's really that easy to spot a bad person?

Another half an hour, he's leaning his broad back against this damn door, and then his patience snaps. It's like a click in his head. He gets up, rubbing his drowsy eyes. A little more and he'll fall asleep right here, on the doormat, like a stray dog. His fingers press the doorbell, the unpleasant trill cuts through his ears. And he keeps pressing and pressing, and fucking pressing-

If they don't open, that's it for all. He can imagine them approaching the door. Silently standing there. Maybe pretending not to be home or not to recognize him. But if they open, then...

He hears a click, tenses up, and takes a step back, as if scalded. The doorknob turns and another click. The door opens, the perfectly oiled hinges don't make a single squeak. He wants to smile like a fool, but holds back the urge. "Hey. I'm- I'm back." It comes out silly. His hands hidden in his pockets, he's tense. His voice doesn't obey and comes out not quite clear, somehow... pitiful.