The True Story Of How I Met Your Daddy

My hand shakes as I write this, but I have to get it down. It's the last thing I'll be doing in this life. I want you to know who your real parents are, and the real story behind them. I love you, my baby boy.


8. Bars


I leant against the cold steel bars, watching the clock on the wall tick and tock around the last minute. It's the last day of my 10 month sentence, and I can't wait to get out and see my baby boy, Braden-Harlem again. It's only a week until his 1st birthday, you know.

Life behind bars was tough, what with the other inmates having committed crimes varying from prostitution, to murder. I can't wait for it to be all over, and to put this whole experience behind me. I'll be a free woman in 4...3...2...1.

The harsh bell that wakes us up, rings through the halls. I was up all night waiting, so I didn't get shaken awake.

"Oh for fuck sake, switch that motherfucking alarm OFF!" My cellmate, Mercedes shouts, pushing me out the way and flinging one of her plimsolls out the bars at the clock. She got stuck in here for prostitution, possession of a Class A substance, and possession of an illegal firearm. She's done that every day since I arrived, and if the alarm hasn't woken everyone up, her loud voice will have.

"Ah, go stick your other shoe where the sun don't shine, then shut the hell up Merc. You're even better at waking everyone up than the bloody alarm." Fianna shouted back from the cell opposite. She was put behind bars for attempted murder of her husband, whom was having an affair with Mercedes. Naturally, they both detest eachother, and have frequent shouted arguements across the corridor. It's worse when they're both out of the cells though; nearly everyone here has witnessed at least one catfight or two. Hopefully the warden will come for me before one screams abuse at the other one. I do hope Mercedes starts it off though, as I don't wanna lose anything.

We prisoners don't get a lot of luxuries, so what we do have is very precious to us. We do place a lot of bets though, and the rules of them are set in stone. You Lose, You Pay. Most common bet in this block is Will Fianna Or Mercedes Start Screaming Abuse At The Other First? I bet my black eyeliner pencil against Lateisha's only pair of tights that don't have a ladder in them, that Mercedes will start it off. I don't have to wait long to find out who won.

"Shut your mouth up, anorexic bitch! Or I'll come over and shut it for you! Mind you, you need to shut those legs of yours aswell, you bloody whore!" Mercedes screamed, as I heard some women cheer, and others swear in frustration. Lateisha had better have them ready. I crossed to the other side of my small shared cell, where I saw her scowling across from hers.

"You know the rule, LT. Hand them over!" I call, as she takes them out from under her pillow. I can just reach out to the middle of the corridor, and I know she can too. So there's no excuse. All through the corridor, I saw various items, such as powder compacts, rings, and a radio, being handed over all at once. Like I said, it's the most popular bet in this block. I took hold of Lateisha's tights, and pulled them back through the bars. A LOT of fights happen because of the bets, but they still carry on. I packed her tights under my top, when the warden came down the long thin corridor.

"Whilhemina-Jean! You know what I'm here for." She called, as her keys jangled in the lock. The door scraped open, and I was taken out. The loud clang of it being locked again, was the most satisfying sound ever. All I had to do was go through reclaim, and I was out. Walking through the corridor, I felt on cloud 9, and way above the catcalls of other jealous inmates.

"We'll be having you back soon Bitchaca! Just you wait!"

"Wan't me to tell the warden to drop you off on the nearest street corner? It's where you belong anyway."

"Hey, Bitchy-Jean! First two lines of that song 'bout you are wrong as! You ain't no Beauty Queen!"

I soared above all the comments, and I was practically touching the ceiling; I was so excited. Entering reclaim, I was handed back all the clothes I was wearing when I was first incarcerated, then directed to the prisoner changing room. I slipped out of the shapeless standard clothes we're all issued with, and into my original clothes. It didn't half feel good, being one step closer to freedom. First thing I'm doing when I get out, is seeing my child again. Second thing I'm doing, posting a letter to the kid's real father (I don't care what the courts, or the test says. I know he is) telling him that I still don't forgive him, he owes me tons for being the muse for one of his new songs in the new album, and that once he pays me all he owes me, he can dig a very deep hole, crawl into it, then die.

I come out of the changing room, feeling like a new person, and I'm led to the office on Release. One signature stands between me and freedom. I sign on the dotted line, and I'm now free. Walking out of the prison, I breath the cool, fresh air of good-old southern California. It feels good to be back. I get a lift on the bus back to my flat, and prepare to surprise my sister and child.

Knocking on the door, I prepare to make a good impression. The door swings open, and I can tell that something's very wrong.

"Oh, hey sis. I didn't expect you to be back so...soon."

"I know. It's been so long, hasn't it. Where's Braden-Harlem? He'll be so glad to see me back." I reply, looking past her into the flat.

"Braden-Harlem? Oh, he's fine." My sister said shadily. I could tell that she was hiding something though, and if it involved my son, she'd better tell me it soon.

"What's happened?" I asked. I could tell she was dreading that question, but if something's happened to my son, I have to know about it.

" might want to come in and sit down. I've got some...bad news."

"What sort of bad news?" I asked, drifting through into the living room. I noticed that she'd redecorated the place in an Oriental style, but it barely registered on my subconscious for more than a second.

"Well, remember what the prosecution said about you in the opening speech?" My sister asked, inviting me to sit down.

" "Dangerously obsessed", "promiscuously inclined" and "a danger to her newborn son." How could I forget?" I replied.

"Yeah, well the trial was televised. The Child Protection Offices saw it, and took Braden-Harlem into care. He's been adopted by someone else, but I'm not allowed to know where he's been taken, or who he's been adopted by. They view you as a "threat" to his wellbeing." My sister broke down in tears, holding onto me.

I felt my heart sink, and split open, and leak blood through my body. This had to be some sort of sick joke. How am I a threat to Braden-Harlem? The last time I went out and came back drunk, was ages before he was even concieved. I've always left someone to look after him when I've had to go out, or I've taken him with me. I've never smoked or taken drugs, and I took as much care as possible when I was pregnant with him. How on earth was I considered a threat? I just couldn't work it out.

"How am I a threat? I tried my hardest to remember all the bad things I'd done when I was with Braden-Harlem, but there was nothing I could think of. It must have been all made up to make my life a misery, but who could have such a hatred of me, and the power to do that? There was only one person I could think of.

"That son of a bitch. I knew he hated me, but I didn't think he would do that. He went one step above saying Braden-Harlem wasn't his. He made sure he wasn't mine either." I said, realising how low he could really sink. I don't care about getting shoved back in jail again; I want him to feel as much physical pain, as I do emotionally. I stand up, my blood boiling, and go to the door.

"Where are you going?" My sister asks, as I wrench the door open.

"I need to sort someone out. If I don't come back, I've been arrested for breaking and entering, and assault." I reply.


The stone wall scraped at my hands, as I dragged myself over. I don't have the time, or the patience to use the intercom, so I'm breaking in. The 10 foot drop on the other side is painful, but I don't care. It's another reason for me to make him feel more pain. I stride across the grounds, and find the french doors are open. Going inside, I make my way through the comlplex maze of rooms, until I find him.

He's sitting with his back to me, writing something down on a scrap of paper. I don't think he's heard me, so the surprise will make it hurt even more. I walk up behind him, and slap him as hard as possible on the back of the head. He jumps up in shock, as the pencil and paper drop to the floor. Judging by how he's clutching the back of his head, the slap really hurt.

"That bloody hurt, you mental cow! What the hell was that for?" He asks, wincing in pain.

"Good, I'm glad it does. You know perfectly well what it's for, so don't give me that." I reply.

"I got you a reduced sentence, but I couldn't do any more. I can't help that."

"I don't care about that. What I really care about, is that you  lied to the Child Protection Office! My son has been taken off of me, and adopted off to someone else! All under your word!" I slap him again. This time I catch him square on the jaw, and a few drops of blood spring up.

"Look, I don't know what you're on about. I haven't said a word about you since the trial, and I would never do that anyway."

"That's a downright lie right there. Everyone in jail was talking about the song you wrote about me. Nearly everyone in jail except me, has heard it. Judging by the comments I get, you showed me as an obsessed goldigger."

"Ok, I admit that, but if you listen to the first verse, I say how pretty you are." He takes a step backwards, as I swing a right hook at him. Clearly he's getting wise to it.

"Like that's going to bring my son back to me. I tried my hardest to be a good mother to him, then a son of a bitch decides to take him away from me and reduce my life to worthless nothings." I snap.

"I said I didn't, or didn't you hear me. I had nothing to do with it." He steps back again, avoiding my attack.

"I don't believe you. Just get out of my life, and don't come back." I hissed.

"I can never do that." He earned the last slap I gave him. A nice sharp one that left a hand-shaped patch over his right eye.

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