***Trigger warning for graphic mentions of violent death, a house fire, mentions of panic attacks, and minor self harm.***
Start the song. It's Lockjaw by Mothers.

Most people waited until they were at least an adult to make the biggest mistake of their lives. They'd do something that was kind of excusable too, like cheat on their spouse or drive after a couple too many beers and hit a tree. That was human nature, right? You grow up doing sorta dumb things, become an adult, do your absolute worst, and then grow from it. Right? That's how it works.

That wasn't how it worked for Josh though. Josh was thirteen when he made the biggest mistake of his life, and it wasn't excusable by any means. In fact, he didn't even know which part of what had happened was his biggest mistake.

Maybe it was deciding in the first place that it would be a good idea to burn down the abandoned house downtown. He hadn't thought it would be a big deal. He set fires all the time as a kid. It was soothing to him. The fires kept getting bigger and bigger as the relief started to ebb away, so he'd thought burning something big would make it better. He'd poured gasoline stolen from his dad's garage all around the foundation of the building before tossing a few matches on top. Watching the fire erupt had been the most incredible thing he'd ever seen. He'd thought nothing would ever take away the satisfaction of watching the fire climb up the walls of the building.

Then the screaming had started. Maybe that was his biggest mistake-not checking to see if anyone was inside the building before he poured that gasoline. It had been abandoned though, so he'd thought it was safe. He'd never been more wrong. Still, he wasn't sure if that was his biggest mistake either.

Maybe his biggest mistake was freezing up at the sound of the screams, staring at the building in fear and fascination instead of doing anything to save the people trapped inside. He'd been standing frozen on the sidewalk outside the smouldering house as people tried to break windows and escape the burning building that was being eaten alive by the flames he'd created. None of them made it out.

The older Josh got, rotting away in a juvenile detention center before being transferred to an actual prison at eighteen, the more he thought that none of those were his biggest mistake. Although he'd never be able to forget the sounds of their agonized screams or the smell of their burning flesh, there was one thing he regretted even more than what he'd done to end the lives of six homeless people while he was still wearing a sweatshirt with his middle school mascot on the front of it.

The older Josh got, the more he regretted not having dropped the matches and run before the police showed up. He regretted that more than the knowledge that he was responsible for the burning building collapsing in on six innocent people.

Josh had been too young and too scared and too confused when he'd sat through police interrogations, gone before a judge, received what would likely turn out to be a life sentence with no bail, and learned he couldn't even have his case reassessed until he was twenty-one. He was lucky they'd given him that tiny piece of leniency since he was just a stupid thirteen-year-old with a handful of matches and a curiosity about fire. Most people who were charged with first degree aggravated arson and six counts of involuntary manslaughter in Ohio would be charged with 76 years in prison, but Josh had a chance to get out after only eight years.

Growing up in the environment Josh had was rough, and he knew he'd turned out different because of it. Whenever his family visited him, they seemed uncomfortable, like they were afraid of him. His two youngest siblings had stopped coming when he was sixteen. His other sister stopped when he was moved into an actual prison. His parents visited infrequently and barely said a word when they did. He didn't blame them.

Sometimes his family sent him books or commissary money or letters. While that was nice of them, he missed seeing them in person. He didn't communicate it or let it show, but he missed them terribly. He understood their absence though. Because of the age Josh had first been incarcerated, he only really knew how to function as an inmate. He knew that was true too. He was manipulative and got angry too fast and couldn't communicate how he was feeling at any given time. He spent the majority of his time in the numb detachment he'd adopted around the time he turned fourteen while sitting in a jail cell.

Since Josh had been a kid when he was arrested for such severe and violent charges, people in here didn't like him. The first time Josh's mom had visited him in a proper prison, she'd cried the whole time because he was so bruised and detached. It only got worse when the newer prisoners brought in details from Josh's case like that four of the people in the building he'd burnt down had been kids. Josh had been nearly beaten to death over that. He'd been in solitary ever since, even though he'd never fought back. It was for his own safety apparently.

Josh didn't care about that though. In six months, his case could be reassessed. They'd decided to wait until he was twenty-one in order to make sure he really and truly understood that what he'd done was wrong. That was bullshit though. Josh had known from the second he'd heard the first scream. It didn't matter though. When they looked over his case again, they'd decide if he going to keep his 76 year sentence or be released on probation.

Apparently, there was a lot of fuss outside of the prison about that. People were calling for him to get the death penalty. His mom had come by a few months ago, sobbing and holding a newspaper that said he was on death row now. That wasn't true, but it had scared his mother shitless. She'd yelled at him for not telling her he'd had another trial and how she couldn't believe he'd been stupid enough to let this happen in the first place, barely letting Josh have a second to explain that the article wasn't true.

Sometimes when Josh was sitting in his cell, he wondered if his parents thought their biggest mistake was having him for a son. He never asked though. It was safer not to show weakness in a place like this. Besides, he didn't want to know their responses.

The best and worst part of being in prison for Josh was always getting letters from people on the outside. Some were comforting, others scared him, and most made him feel sick with guilt.

Getting letters from his brother and sisters was always nice. They sent him pictures of their pets and themselves with their friends. His sister, Ashley, sent him poems she wrote on scraps of paper and greasy napkins. His brother, Jordan, sent him pictures he took out in nature since Josh only ever saw grass inside of barbed wire fences when he went outside. Abigail sent him drawings and polaroids of anything that caught her eye (mostly dogs). Hearing from them was nice, but it was painful too. When Ashley got married, she sent a wedding invitation and pictures from the wedding itself in one big envelope. Josh had never even met the guy. It felt weird, surreal.

Some people sent Josh death threats or pictures of the victims they'd downloaded off of the internet and put onto printer paper. Looking at them made Josh feel unbearably sick. Whenever his mom asked if people sent him bad things, he lied and said no. He never wanted her to know that he kept every single piece of hate mail he received as a reminder of what he'd done.

Josh felt sick when he got letters from people who looked up to him for what he'd done too. Some were adults, which made him uncomfortable, but the worst were from kids. There were teenagers who said they wanted to recreate what he'd done or that they'd burnt something down in his name. Some sent him pictures of the fires, and he always felt guilty for looking at them with fascination. He'd started smoking in prison just so he could have an excuse to use a lighter. The flames still comforted him, even if they terrified him just as much. He never responded to copycats. He was too afraid of them thinking he was encouraging them.

As awful as it sounded, Josh's favourite letters were the ones that came from people who, for some reason, thought he'd want to be their boyfriend. That didn't make any sense to him. You'd have to be embarrassingly lonely to write love letters to someone who was slated to serve 76 years in prison. The sentiment was nice though.

Thinking about those kind letters written by desperate people got Josh through a lot of situations he wasn't sure how he'd survive otherwise. Growing up in police custody hadn't been easy, and he'd needed that kindness, even if it came from crazy people who couldn't find human connection outside of the cage he was trapped in.

Lately, the letters weren't doing that much to help Josh, though. The anxiety about what would happen if he didn't get let out in six months had him more detached than ever. He tried to block out the unpleasant feelings, staying in his cell at all times and eating only when he was forced to. The letters were a nice gesture, but they never stopped Josh from being handcuffed and led through the prison to sit in front of an endless stream of therapists who thought they could somehow give him some kind of hope for the future. There was no future in this prison though. If they didn't let him out, he'd be in solitary for 68 more years. That would kill him for sure.

Josh kept his cuffed hands in his lap, staring at them dejectedly as the therapist was briefed by the guards about how he never acted up or was violent. They told her it was her choice if she wanted to keep the cuffs on him, but that he'd only ever been a danger to himself in the two and a half years he'd been in their custody.

"And if he wants to hurt himself, the cuffs aren't gonna stop him," one of the officers told the therapist as if Josh couldn't hear him.

Josh was used to being considered deaf and blind to the world around him. Why would he be deemed human if he lived in a cage like an aggressive dog? The therapist glanced nervously at him, but he kept his eyes on his hands. She was Ashley's age, and her hair had a reddish tint to it too. Josh's heart tugged painfully, making him regret telling the guard who had come to check on him that he wasn't feeling safe in the head.

There was only one guard in here that Josh could actually trust. He was extremely selective about who he let in, but Officer Hoppus had earned Josh's trust pretty early on. On Josh's first night in solitary, he'd broken down completely as he realized what that meant for him. His only form of human contact was going to be when food was brought to his cell or when someone led him to a room where he could shower while being supervised.

About halfway through Josh's panic attack, and despite the shouts from the other officers not to do so, Officer Hoppus had opened Josh's cell and sat on the floor next to where Josh had wound up after his knees gave out. He didn't say anything. He just sat with Josh until he could calm down, telling the other guards to fuck off whenever they tried to make him abandon Josh. Ever since that night, Josh had trusted Hoppus. Sometimes Hoppus brought him books or snuck him food that didn't suck. He stuck up for Josh too, just like he did today.

"Look. He's probably the nicest inmate we've got, and he isn't even in here for something he did on purpose. Read his file before you pass a judgment on him. If you want to take his cuffs off but don't know how you feel about it, I can stick around. Odds are, he'll make his wrists raw by the end of this session if you don't take them off though," Hoppus told her in a slightly more hushed voice.

It wasn't until Officer Hoppus said it out loud that Josh realized he'd already started rubbing his wrists against the cuffs. The skin was reddening, so he stopped.

The other officer rolled his eyes. "He allegedly didn't do it on purpose. You don't get a life sentence if it wasn't on purpose," he said through a smug smirk.

Josh's jaw tightened, but he forced himself to go numb again. He thought about the last letter his brother had sent him. The letter itself said very little, but he'd written on the backs of all the photos he sent Josh. They told him about how he'd gone to the Valentine's Day dance at his school stag and had the best time ever despite not having a date. They told him that Ashley and her husband had adopted two cats that were adorable. They told him that there had been a lot of snow in Columbus lately. They told him his family was doing okay without him. That last one was both a relief and a burden.

Josh didn't realize he'd zoned out until he felt his cuffs being unlocked. Hoppus smiled at him slightly, chuckling under his breath when he looked over at the therapist. "What'd I tell you about his wrists? They're raw already."

The therapist smiled sadly. The other officer was gone, so she must have decided she wanted Hoppus to stick around for a while. It wasn't necessary. Apart from rubbing his aching wrists tenderly, Josh didn't move. He didn't make eye contact. He hated eye contact. Supposedly that was a symptom of anxiety, but he didn't care about the why. He cared about not being stared at.

"Inmate 201121. Joshua Dun." The therapist read off of his file. "Can I call you Joshua?" The woman asked carefully as she sat down in the chair across from his. Hoppus sat in one by the door, giving Josh space.

"Josh is better," Josh said quietly, keeping his eyes on his hands.

She nodded, writing that down as if she'd be around long enough for it to matter. Once she was finished, she smiled at him warmly. "Okay, Josh. Well, my name is Debby. It's my understanding that you asked to talk to somebody who could help you with your mental health. Is that right?"

Josh shrugged. "Not exactly," he replied in the same quiet voice.

He used to be louder, didn't he? He had to have been louder when he was a kid. He wasn't as scared back then.

Debby nodded, reading through his file carefully. Her eyebrows raised. "You burnt a building down with matches and gasoline. Only seven percent of arsonists-"

"I know," Josh interrupted quietly, irritation dribbling into his tone. "Every therapist tells me that. The judge told me that. Social workers told me that. My lawyer told me that. I get it. I'm a rare case."

Hoppus chuckled, looking out of the small window at the top of the metal door. "Easy, buddy. She's just doing her job."

Irritation continued to dig at Josh as he took a deep breath and starting picking at his cuticles. "Sorry," he breathed out.

Debby eyed him carefully. "You've missed a lot of important milestones in here, haven't you? Finishing middle school, starting high school, learning to drive, prom, graduation. Has that been hard on you?"

Josh shrugged, interlocking his fingers and keeping his hands still in his lap, his eyes trained on them. "I don't know." He looked up when he heard her pen start scratching against the paper of the small notebook beside his file. "What are you writing?"

"I think this separation from peers your own age, lack of positive role models, distance from your family, and missing so many important milestones has affected you more than you know. It contributes to your anxiety and tarnished your sense of self. Your self esteem is low because you never had a chance to find out who you really are. You were too busy being behind bars," Debby informed him plainly.

Josh's eyebrows raised. He glanced over his shoulder at Hoppus, who seemed surprised too. Josh looked back to Debby, still not meeting her eyes.

"You got all of that from one question?" He asked curiously.

She smiled slightly. "Are you saying you agree with me?"

Josh swallowed hard. "If I get out of here when my case is reassessed, can all of that shit in my brain get better?"

She sighed. "It's hard to say. Your file says your last visitor was your mom and that it's been two months. Your main form of communication with the outside world is letters. I think you're going to need a strong support system when you get out of here if you're going to be able to transition back into regular life easily. Incarceration is all you really know. You're going to need help to cope with the lack of structure outside of prison and to learn skills you would've learned at a much younger age if circumstances allowed."

Honestly, Josh had no idea what he'd do if he got out. He didn't know where he'd go or if anyone would want him around. His family didn't even visit. Why would they take him in?

Unsure of how to communicate to her how much that terrified him, he just nodded. He chewed at the inside of his cheek, something he'd learned early on could keep him from crying most of the time. He wished his mom or his siblings or even his dad would come visit him. He needed someone to tell him that this was going to be okay, but he didn't have anyone. All he had was letters from strangers who either hated him, idolized him, or saw him as their last resort for love.

He flinched when Debby reached out and took his hand softly. Hoppus sat up straighter in his seat as Josh looked nervously up at the woman in front of him. She smiled sadly.

"I know this all feels impossible, but you can do this. You're going to be able to rebuild your life and find happiness when you get out of here," she told him softly, sounding so sure.

"If I get out of here," he corrected quieted, not pulling his hand away from hers out of the sheer relief of having someone touch him for a reason other than cuffing him.

"I've read your file, Josh. I think you should start considering this a when," she said with a smile.

He found himself smiling slightly. "Yeah. Maybe."

She smiled kindly at him before releasing his hand and sitting back. Part of him wanted to grab her hand again, anxiety building up in him as the familiar panic of not knowing the next time he'd be in contact with another human being started to eat away at the lining of his stomach.

"Why don't you tell me a little bit about the day that got you put in here," she said as she picked up her pen again.

Josh swallowed down the ache in this chest, forcing himself to go numb again. If. When. It didn't matter. He was here, and he was alone.