Today is my parole hearing. My fourth to be exact. It doesn’t mean shit. They’re not going to set me free. That doesn’t happen when you kill a man. I don’t give a fuck. I find I don’t give a fuck about anything these days. I haven’t in a long time. I won’t get parole because every time a bunch of stiff-necked suits ask me if I feel remorse for my crime, I laugh.
I killed the man who murdered my wife. She was a whore. I didn’t love her, didn’t even like her. But I did love the child she was carrying. So I hunted him down, and I squeezed the life out of him with my bare hands. I watched as, bit by bit, the light drained from his eyes and just when he was about to die, I let the pressure off his neck and allowed him to gasp another breath. Then, I did it again. Rinse and repeat until finally I ended the motherfucker. I relished it. I spit on his corpse as I let him fall to the ground. I didn’t feel remorse. Shit, no. Instead, I got the first fucking hard on I’d had in months.
A machine-made sound buzzes and the retracting of my cell door begins. I stand there as Officer Jenkins comes into view. He’s a cocky asshole who gets his kicks out of beating prisoners, just because he can. I tower over him. Hell, I could snap him like a fucking twig. I’ve always restrained but as he looks at me a sneer on his face and spits at my shoes, I can’t help but wonder if two murders would send me to hell quicker? It might be worth the gamble.
“Let’s go, cupcake. Time for you to go and beg for freedom like the candy-ass you are,” he says, grabbing my arm and pulling me in front of him.
I don’t say anything; I don’t even change my facial expression. This piss-ant ain’t nothing to me. If I liked him, even marginally, I’d warn him there is a prison riot and break out planned for today. I might even go one step further and tell him he’s the one Hernandez, and his crew are planning on beating the shit out of. Hell, I’d even warn him about the jagged Coke bottle they had smuggled in and have been fixing up, just for his lily white ass. I don’t. The ass-reaming he’s going to get couldn’t happen to a nicer guy. We walk down a long hall, surrounded by prison cells on each side. I ignore the yelling, questions, and catcalls. I have a reputation as someone you do not fuck with, in this joint. That’s good enough for me. Hernandez tried to get me to join his crew for the breakout. I didn’t. There’s nothing waiting for me outside these doors, not a fucking thing.
We make our way to the last set of steel doors, and they slide open as the guard on the other side lets us in. I’m escorted into an elevator where another guard joins us. I forget this one’s name. Byron or something like that, pretty decent guy. I’d warn him, but then he’d feel obligated to stop it, and that wouldn’t be good for me. So I don’t. My conscience has been colored gray like these fucking walls, too.
The small room where they hold the parole hearings hasn’t changed; neither has the smell. The smell of the prison permeates every inch of the place. If there is one thing I hate the fucking most about this place, it is the stink of it.
I’m placed at a small table that will face the panel. It’s a familiar routine. There will be a bunch of tight assed, fancy dressed assholes, who look as if my presence offends them. They’ll have to get in fucking line. My presence offends my own damn self.
I’m waiting for everyone to show up when she walks in.
Fucking hell! Who let her in here? She walks through the door looking lost. She is. She’s a damned baby thrown into an angry tank of sharks. She’s going to get eaten alive. She has hair the color of coffee, creamy and rich. It’s pulled on top of her head and wrapped in a bun. I’m sure it was meant to give her a matronly appearance. It does not. It exposes her neck and makes the beast in me want to bite into it while I bend her over the damn table she just put the briefcase on. She’s wearing black, dress pants that hug her slim thighs and a red silk shirt. I can’t even remember the last time I had sex and one look at her, and my dick is ready to come for days. Come all over her, to be exact. A picture of her bare-ass naked and covered in my jizz, from her thick apple lips to her fuck-me stilettos, cements in my mind.
“Who the fuck are you?” I bark at her, annoyed at the way my dick is standing at attention.
“I…I’m Mr. Barger’s paralegal,” she stumbles, her eyes widen in surprise, with a healthy dose of fear mixed in when she looks at me.
“Who the fuck is Mr. Barger?” I ask, doing my best to ignore the way her shirt exposes the mounds of her breasts when she bends over to look through her papers.