Chapter Seventy-Nine
He tossed and turned in his bed, tangling the twisted sheets around his left leg while he tightly gripped a pillow to his chest, moaning and mumbling. His hair clung moistly to his sweat-drenched forehead, and his eyes moved rapidly in REM sleep.
He was back at the house on 24 Royal Street. He stepped inside the front door and stood in the doorway feeling puzzled and disoriented. His leg was shaking with a jerky rhythm, and he looked down at it, mesmerized by the pattern of movement. When he looked back up, the living room looked normal enough to him with its chintz-covered couch, lace curtains in the windows and family photos nestled on the fireplace mantel. But, there were people, lots of people - all men - milling about the house, laughing, talking, holding up highballs, drinking and smoking. He watched for several slow motion minutes, eyes rapidly blinking in confusion and anxiety.
He jumped when he heard a loud crash in the kitchen and piercing laughter emitting from the room in a hysterical tone. His heart raced in alarm. "Mom!" he called out in a high-pitched voice edged with fear. None of the people hanging around the house looked in his direction - they continued laughing, drinking and slapping their legs after telling dirty jokes. He stepped away from the door and tried to head for the kitchen, but men kept grabbing at his arms with their hairy hands. He slipped past them and pushed and fought his way to the kitchen. He had to find out what was going on. He suddenly fell flat on his stomach, and he cried out, the tears flooding his hot cheeks as he slapped at the grasping hands. He started crawling on his hands and knees and finally succeeded in eluding the people trying to hold him back. He stood up shakily, pushing on the door to the kitchen.
When he entered the kitchen, it seemed transfigured by bright, yellow light, unnatural in its eerie intensity. His eyes traveled slowly around the room, catching the sights as if on videotape, and rested on his mother who was throwing her head back, laughing and giggling hysterically. She was wrapped in a blond man's arms, but the man's back was turned towards him, and he couldn't see the man's face. A fiercely shrieking teakettle bubbled and overflowed with boiling water, its contents untended and unnoticed.
As he moved toward the stove to turn off the hot burner, the man turned towards him and smiled slowly, a red circle dotted his forehead, and his face creased as the smile grew wider and wider while his mother squeezed her eyes shut with her laughter. As he walked toward the man, he recognized him as Stefan Cassadine, and he felt entranced by the man's swinging medallion, fluidly dangling in gold from his neck. His mother fixed her eyes on him and smiled so broadly that all of her teeth shone out sharp and white from her curved red lips. She walked toward him with outstretched arms, and he felt totally numb and paralyzed, rooted to one spot on the floor, his legs and feet useless dead weights and unable to run. She continually slid toward him, and her lips cried, "Lu-uuuck-eee!! M-y-yy b-ooo-yy!" in slow motion, distorted sound. He trembled as she wrapped her left arm around him, and in the corner of his eyes, he spied the sharp, glinting, stainless steel butcher knife that she held high in the air, hidden from him. But, he knew it was there as he felt the rush of air signaling its swift descent toward his back.
Lucky jerked awake and cried out as he flailed his right arm backward, smacking it into the headboard of his bed. He whimpered, struggling with the sheets, still disoriented and filled with fear. He twisted his body sharply to the right and slid off of the bed and onto the cold linoleum floor. He grunted as his hip bore the brunt of his fall. He sank down completely and panted, his face and palms absorbing the coolness of the floor's smooth surface.
After a minute of lying on the floor, he grew angry and frustrated, and he rose slowly, disgustedly flinging the trailing sheets away from his body. Lucky winced as he limped over to the bathroom. He turned on the light and caught sight of his pale, sweating face with the drenched tendrils of his bangs clinging to his cheeks. He turned on the faucet and, not pausing to let the stream of water heat up, splashed his face repeatedly, soaping up and rinsing it again. He reached for a towel and ran it roughly over his face before peering again into the mirror. He noticed that he had very dark circles under his eyes and a worn, drawn look to his face. "Fuck!" he growled, throwing the towel on the towel rack and slamming off the lights.
Lucky plopped into the seat next to the bathroom and pulled his feet up onto the chair. He wrapped his arms around his legs and stared straight ahead. He remained that way for the next three hours, unwilling to move or return to the bed and a possible repeat dream. He shivered, blanked his mind and hummed tunes under his breath to amuse himself and pass the remainder of the night. Lucky looked gratefully over at the window when the rays of sunshine eventually began streaming through the blinds. He rose from the chair and hobbled over to the bathroom to take a shower and start his day.
~*~*~*~
Lucky's head was pounding as he heaved his breakfast into the toilet in his bathroom. At least my long hair isn't getting in the way, he thought morbidly as he panted and waited for the next round of spasms.
~*~*~*~
"Ken!" said Luke expectantly as he picked up the black prison phone and regarded his lawyer from behind the wire meshed glass barrier. "What's the news, it's good news I'm hoping." Luke's blue eyes reflected his excitement, yet worry and tension co-existed with that emotion, and he gripped the phone tensely as he waited for his lawyer to speak.
"The DA's office is aware of our intent to appeal your conviction. I provided them with at copy of our petition, which of course, includes the details of their incompetence." Ken raised on eyebrow as he regarded his client. He unfolded a thick sheath of papers and smoothed them out on the marred, wooden surface in front of him. "They're probably sweating bullets as we speak, afraid that your conviction will be overturned in a new trial because they didn't execute the duties of their jobs appropriately." Ken reached into his inner suit pocket and produced his reading glasses, perching them on the bridge of his nose. He looked over his glasses at Luke before he proceeded to read. "By tomorrow morning, the DA's office will have a copy of your offered plea agreement in lieu of another costly trial, and one that they may possibly lose. We'll let them sweat over your appeal for another day. Do you want me to review the points of the plea agreement with you again?"
Luke sat up higher in his seat with a rigid spine. "Yes," he said intently, folding his hands and giving Ken his full attention.
Ken held up the creased papers and shuffled through them until he found the page he was looking for. "In lieu of a new trial, you agree to plead guilty to manslaughter. Your previous conviction of first degree murder will be overturned, and your new sentence, to be determined by the judge, will be served in a minimum security prison, the facility to be located no further than fifty miles from Port Charles. Those are the highlights of the plea agreement. Do you have any questions or concerns about what I've prepared?"
Luke shifted uneasily in his seat and rubbed his right thumb nervously over the left one. He cleared his throat. "My main concern is preserving my relationship with my children," he said softly. "I want to leave the system as soon as possible and in the meantime serve my sentence in a facility that won't harm my son when he tries to visit. He…um…he has some mental and emotional problems and can't handle this atmosphere with the maximum security, the guards, and the locked doors. Will a minimum security facility be any different as far as visitation?"
Ken lowered the papers, removed his reading glasses and sat back in his seat. "Each facility is different, but in general, the rules and security measures are fewer in a minimum security facility. But, frankly, anything is an improvement over Pentonville," he said tersely, motioning around the dank, green-gray room with his right hand.
"I have a six year old daughter," Luke added with a twinkle in his eyes. "Would it be possible for her to visit me in a new facility?" Luke regarded his lawyer with an intent, hopeful stare.
Ken laughed. "Let me tell you what I'll do, Luke. I'll check on the policies of every minimum security prison facility within fifty miles of Port Charles and recommend that the judge select the best one for you. How's that?"
Luke relaxed and laughed in response. "I realize I'm a pain in the butt," he admitted. "But I'd really like to know. My kids mean everything to me, and I want to see them." He shifted in his hard wooden seat and turned his neck to the right, rubbing it with his left hand. "Are you sure that a plea agreement is the way to go?" he questioned.
"Definitely," Ken said quickly, nodding his head. "When there's a trial, anything goes, you saw what happened at your last trial. You were convicted of first-degree murder for what in reality was a lesser crime. There are too many variables to be able to control - the judge, the jury, and the rulings on evidence allowed. We have a lot more control up front before it goes to trial. Now, we've won the right to conduct an appeal, and that's in our favor. The DA knows that it's technically possible for you to be acquitted in a second trial, although, the chances of that are too slim to squander your chance to improve your current situation. The odds are too high to gamble away your future."
"Then, let's do it," Luke said, smacking his left palm on the wood counter. His face wore a lopsided grin, and a devilish look crossed his eyes as he wagged a finger at his lawyer. "But, wait a week. I want the DA's office to squirm a bit."
"I take it you're a poker player?" chuckled Ken as he gathered up the papers.
"But of course!" Luke declared. "All Spencers are connoisseurs of the card." He rose and smoothed out the wrinkled legs of his prison jeans.
"I'll leave a copy of the plea agreement with the guards and have one mailed to you just in case they don't get around to handing it to you."
"Thanks, Ken," said Luke with appreciation as he hung up the phone.
~*~*~*~
Lucky gently strummed the strings of his guitar while Nikolas wolfed down his sandwich. Nikolas paused and looked over at his brother. "Don't you want your sandwich?" he asked. "Aren't you hungry? I'm starving." Lucky looked up from his guitar and wordlessly pushed his sandwich toward Nikolas. Nikolas wiped his fingers on his napkin and sat back in his chair, crossing his legs and adjusting the crease in his expensive black trousers. "Why aren't you eating?" he asked.
Lucky shrugged. "Just not," he said simply. Because I don't feel like hurling it after you leave, he thought.
Lucky watched impassively as Nikolas inhaled the second sandwich. "Do you ever write to our mother?" he questioned in a flat tone of voice.
Nikolas' heart jumped, and he looked up in surprise as he stopped chewing his mouthful of food. Why is Lucky bringing her up today? he wondered. He's never asked me about her before. Nikolas cleared his throat and looked guilty. "She's written me a few letters, and I answered one or two," he said. What are the ground rules for this discussion, he thought frantically. "How about you?"
"No letters," said Lucky as he continued to pluck the strings in a random, nonmusical manner.
Nikolas' face flushed with anger and fear. Dammit, why is she putting me in the middle of this? How's he supposed to feel when his brother gets letters and he doesn't?
"You're fortunate she didn't raise you," Lucky commented in a soft voice, never raising his head to look at his brother. He seemed to concentrate his gaze on a single tile on the floor.
Nikolas looked like a rabbit caught in the headlights of an oncoming Mack truck. "Why?" he asked slowly, almost afraid to hear the answer.
"Don't listen to what she says," Lucky advised. "She's a liar.". Lucky's eyes filled with tears, and he stared over at the table leg as he kicked it lightly.
Nikolas looked around the visitation room, searching for answers in the bright primary colors of the wallpaper border. His heart melted when he saw his brother's unshed tears. He reached out his hand and softly laid it on top of Lucky's. "I'm sorry she hurt you," he said sincerely. "I wish I would have known you when I was younger. I would have protected you."
Lucky withdrew his hand and smiled so briefly it barely raised his lips. "And who would have protected you?" he asked simply. He lightly shook his head. "No one."
Lucky picked up his guitar again and signaled his intent to stop the discussion by playing a tune. Nikolas finished his sandwich, confused over why Lucky brought up the topic of their mother and wondering what he could possibly do or say to make Lucky feel better.
~*~*~*~
"Lucky, I need you to sit down and focus so we can have a conversation," Kevin said firmly. Kevin watched Lucky closely as the boy paced back and forth along the perimeter of the office, alternately running his hands through his hair and jamming them into his pockets. Lucky stopped and glared at Kevin, then took a seat on the edge of Kevin's couch.
"I've been trying to engage you in a conversation for the last fifteen minutes," said Kevin. "Now, I've reviewed your chart, and you haven't been eating for the last two days, and from what I can see, it looks like you haven't slept either. I need you to tell me what's going on with you."
Lucky sighed and leaned to the side, laying his head on the armrest of the brown leather couch. "I don't know," he said.
Kevin leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs. He tapped Lucky's chart with his Mont Blanc pen. "I think you do know."
"I can't sleep, I'm having bad dreams," Lucky spat out, shifting his eyes away from Kevin and staring at the bookcase.
"What are the dreams about? What's bothering you?" questioned Kevin.
"I don't remember," Lucky lied.
"Why don't I believe you?" Kevin asked with an exasperated look on his face.
"That's your prerogative," sniffed Lucky as he closed his eyes.
Now I know he's lying, using those big words, thought Kevin. "Does this have something to do with your mother? We spent most of our last two sessions discussing her and her actions."
"Yeah, so," mumbled Lucky sleepily.
Kevin remained silent for a few minutes as he considered his next words. "We need to discuss your feelings about the letter that she sent you and other actions that upset or harmed you. That's the only way to process your emotions and deal with the past." Kevin looked over at Lucky. "Lucky?" The only response from the boy on the sofa was silence and heavy breathing. Great, he's fallen asleep, thought Kevin. Do I wake him up or let him sleep? Kevin turned back to the masses of paperwork on his desk and made his decision as he opened up a file and started writing on a chart with his pen.
~*~*~*~
The voices swirled around him, and his cheek hurt terribly. Why was his face so sticky? "Ohhhhh," he heard himself groan as if in a fog. He grew aware of the hardness of the floor cutting into his hipbone and ribs.
"Get a wheelchair over here, and we'll take him back to his room," the senior nurse instructed. "And bring me his chart so I can record the details of his seizure." She squatted down next to Lucky and rubbed her hand on his back. "Honey," she said calmly. "Are you awake? Can you hear me?"
Lucky frowned and groaned again in pain as he felt the soreness in his muscles and the excruciating pounding in his head. He moved slightly on the floor but didn't rise. The other nurse returned with the wheelchair and his chart. "What happened before you called me over here?" questioned the senior nurse.
"He was walking into the recreation area when he cried out and crumpled to the floor. He started turning blue and then went into convulsions. I rolled him onto his side and that's when I ran to get you." The nurse nervously played with the wedding ring on her left hand. "I did the right thing, didn't I?"
The senior nurse nodded. "Yes, you handled the situation appropriately. He has a seizure disorder. He hasn't had a seizure in quite awhile, though; it's been several weeks. We need to notify his neurologist." She handed the chart back and knelt beside Lucky. "Lucky," she said. "Let's sit you up." She guided Lucky into a sitting position. Lucky frowned when he held his hand to his face, and it came back sticky. He looked down at his hand and the floor. Both were covered with blood, the result of his bitten cheek. A trail of blood ran from his mouth and down his neck. The nurse helped him into the wheelchair, and he leaned to the side with his head resting in his hand. She bent closer to Lucky and said quietly, "Are you feeling okay? Ready to go back to your room?"
"Yes," Lucky said slowly. He was still confused but figured he'd had another seizure. His view of the hallway danced and jumped before him, and he closed his eyes when the moving lights and colors from his ride in the wheelchair made him feel nauseous and dizzy. After the nurse helped clean him off the blood from his face and deposited him into bed, he fell asleep immediately.
~*~*~*~
"Lucky!" Lucky felt someone patting him smartly on the back. He was sleeping on his stomach and quickly turned over on his side, opening one eye to see who was bothering him. His aunt's face loomed near his and made him jump in surprise. "Amy," he said sleepily. "What are you doing here?" It had only been an hour since his seizure, and he was still dopey and disoriented.
"Lucky," Amy said in her shrill, high voice. "Wake up, sleepyhead! You're sleeping the afternoon away." She perched on the side of his bed, her bright red lips moving rapidly and non-stop as the words spilled recklessly from her mouth. "I talked to your mom a couple of days ago. They've given her phone privileges now, you know, and she calls me at least once a week. Anyway, I thought you'd like to know how your mother is doing, and so I stopped by to visit with you for awhile, and…"
"Please leave," Lucky said shortly, interrupting Amy midsentence as panic rose in his gut. "I don't want to talk about my mother."
Amy twisted her face and shook her finger at her nephew. "Now, Lucky," she reprimanded. "I know that Laura isn't perfect, lord knows, I'm aware of that because I'm her sister. But, she 's your mother, and you really need to pay her some attention. She did give birth to you. She's all alone in that prison, and I'm sure it would do her a world of good if you…"
"Shut up!" snapped Lucky. He was unable to control the irritability and headache that resulted from his seizure.
Amy's face took on a horrified look. "Now!" she yelled. "Is that anyway to talk to your aunt. You need to learn some respect. I'm here as an ambassador, an ambassador for the Spencer family. I'm representing your mother. We talked about you for such a long time. I think you should write her a letter. I'm sure you regularly write to that murderer father of yours." Amy reached into her purse and produced a small envelope. "I write her a letter every week telling her what's going on with everyone in General Hospital and Port Charles. She knows that you're in the hospital, of course. I told her that."
"How would you know?" sneered Lucky. "You've never visited me once since I've been here."
"Not true!" protested Amy. "I visited you two times after you tried to kill yourself. It's not my fault if you were catatonic. You didn't see me when I was there. I bought you flowers and everything. Why aren't you more grateful?"
Lucky's eyes filled with tears. "Please go," he whispered, wrapping his hand protectively over his scarred wrist.
Amy ignored him in favor of fulfilling her mission. "Laura wrote me a letter this week and included in the envelope was a letter for you. I came all the way over here on my break just so I could deliver it. That was pretty nice of me, don't you think? Anyway, here you go." Amy shoved the envelope under Lucky's nose.
Lucky scooted up against the headboard as far away from Amy and the envelope as he could manage. He started laughing softly while the tears welled in his eyes. When he turned his head away from Amy, she huffed and frowned. "That's mighty rude of you to act like this," she complained. She grabbed Lucky's left hand and placed the envelope in it, manually closing his fingers around the white, creased paper. "Now you read that and be sure to reply - be polite and don't take longer than a week," she said firmly. "I'm going to leave now, but you be a good boy and get better." Amy patted a nonresistant Lucky firmly on his leg and rose from the bed. "Bye now," she said. When Lucky remained silent and turned away from her, she sighed loudly and flounced from his room.
~*~*~*~
About fifteen minutes after Amy left his room, Lucky stirred and felt the rough paper in his left hand. His hand felt motionless and paralyzed, incapable of opening and releasing the envelope from his tight fingers. His face looked tired, shocked and sad. He slowly moved over onto his back and leaned his head back against the headboard. He looked down at his hand and finally felt his fingers relax and release. He lazily drew his left arm away from the envelope and held it up against his chest, where it lay over his pounding heart.
Lucky's facial features hardened into a deliberate, willful mask. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up. After getting his bearings, he walked out of his room and strode down the hallway, never pausing to look around him. When he sauntered past the nurse's station, there were no nurses present since the shift change was taking place, and the on-duty nurse had left before the new nurse arrived. Lucky reached out his hand to push open the glass door to the psychiatric ward and kept walking. He only stopped when he reached the elevator and pressed the down arrow button. The elevator opened to an empty car, and he stepped inside, pressing the button with a number one and a star on it.
Lucky walked out of the main entrance to
General Hospital and turned right, never looking back. One thought filled his mind: he was
headed for Cortland Street.
Next...