THE BROKEN DREAMS

Three months after Fred's life behind bars began, a sliver of hope finally appeared.

On a dusty Wednesday afternoon, Sergeant Otieno — wearing his usual crumpled brown uniform and a tired expression — barked:

> "Prisoner 4581! You have visitors!"

Fred's heart jumped so violently it hurt.

Visitors?

For me?

He stood up too fast, nearly knocking over the cracked metal stool he sat on during reading hours.

Hands trembling, he followed Otieno past the rusty gates, past mocking inmates who called after him:

> "Hey, rich boy finally remembered!"

"Maybe it's your sugar mama!"

Fred ignored them.

His heart pounded in his ears.

Maybe it was Mom.

Maybe Lisa.

Maybe Gloria.

Maybe they hadn't forgotten.

He was led into the visitation hall — walls stained yellow with age, windows broken and patched with cardboard.

Rows of small tables lined the space, each table crowded with weeping mothers, stern fathers, girlfriends clutching their imprisoned lovers' hands.

Fred scanned the room.

And then he saw them.

Standing awkwardly near the far wall:

His mother, Jemima Mureithi, now 43, skin once caramel but now ashen from stress, wearing a faded blue dress that hung loosely off her shrinking frame.

His uncle, Paul Mureithi, 50, pot-bellied, wearing a cheap knockoff suit, sunglasses inside the building, chewing gum loudly.

Beside them... Lisa.

But not his Lisa.

This Lisa wore high heels that clicked arrogantly against the cracked floor, a tiny black dress clinging to her curvier figure.

Her hair was dyed honey-blonde.

Heavy makeup masked her once-sweet face.

She looked... rich.

Cold.

A stranger.

Fred's smile froze on his face.

--

Fred rushed toward them, but halfway across the hall, his mother raised her hand —

not in greeting, but to stop him.

He froze mid-step, confusion burning inside.

Paul spoke first, his voice bored, businesslike:

> "Fred, listen. We came to tell you not to expect anything from us anymore."

Fred blinked.

What?

His mother wouldn't meet his eyes.

She stared at the floor like it might swallow her whole.

Lisa... Lisa smirked.

Fred's heart cracked wide open.

Paul continued:

> "We've decided to sell the family home. Use the money to start over. You're not part of that plan."

Fred's throat closed.

> "M-Mom...?" he croaked.

Finally, Jemima looked at him.

Her eyes were empty.

Not angry.

Not sad.

Just... exhausted.

> "I'm tired, Freddy," she whispered, voice breaking.

"Tired of fighting. Tired of hoping. You're too much trouble."

Fred staggered back like he'd been punched.

Paul chuckled and adjusted his cheap sunglasses:

> "Besides," he said, flashing a gold tooth, "Lisa is with me now."

Fred's brain short-circuited.

What?

Lisa — his Lisa — slid her hand around Paul's fat, sweaty arm, her long nails glinting under the weak fluorescent lights.

She tilted her head at Fred, mockingly sweet:

> "Sorry, Freddie. You were just... a phase."

And then she kissed Paul on the mouth — slow, disgusting, triumphant.

Fred's soul shattered.

Right there.

In front of everyone.

Some guards smirked.

Other inmates who noticed laughed cruelly.

Fred couldn't breathe.

He opened his mouth, but no words came out.

Only silence.

Lisa's perfume — cheap and sickly sweet — filled his nostrils.

Paul tossed a manila envelope onto the dirty table between them.

It slid toward Fred like a final nail in a coffin.

> "Papers. You're disowned. We're changing the family name too. No more Mureithi curse."

Fred's hands hung useless at his sides.

He watched — numb, empty — as his mother, his uncle, and Lisa turned their backs on him.

They walked out, heels clicking, leaving him standing there.

Alone.

Forever.

---

Back in his cold, damp cell that night, Fred stared at the envelope.

He didn't open it.

He didn't need to.

He knew it contained death.

Not of his body.

But of everything he once believed in:

Family

Love

Loyalty

Hope

Gone.

Murdered.

Betrayed.

Fred lay on the thin mattress staring at the cracked ceiling.

Tears slid silently down his cheeks.

He made no sound.

No sobbing.

No whimpering.

Just quiet, endless grief.

Somewhere deep inside, the last fragile piece of him finally broke.

And something else started growing.

Something darker.

Something sharper.

---

Later that night, Malik found him sitting alone under the flickering hallway light.

Malik crouched down, face serious.

> "Fourth lesson, Freddie," he said softly.

"Never expect loyalty from blood. Blood doesn't make family. Loyalty does."

Fred said nothing.

His chest felt carved out.

Malik placed a heavy hand on Fred's shoulder:

> "Pain is fuel. Use it. Or it will use you."

Fred nodded once, slowly.

A new fire flickered in his dead eyes.

No more tears.

No more begging.

No more hope.

Just survival.

Just vengeance.

---