Created by OnePlusYou

Saturday, December 25, 2010

Because I said so...

Dedicated to my Mother.

Because I said so...

Because I neglected what I knew from the beginning... I get into this mess. It really is a mess, huh? Well. That's something to tell me Grandkids, if I ever get them.

Rambling like an old man already, eh? I wonder if he's rumbling like a loon, too. Something about our jobs are just that fucking perfect all the time. Perfection is not within human grasp though, we still fight for justice to be done for all of us. For all that would be. Now, I'm in the past, and Wright's there. Fighting.

Though, what is he fighting for now? The cop who's luck is close to non-existent? Butz? The weasel got out of my hands, not because of slick--that's Trite's job.

The rain falls out side and the cell echos with the darkness from all men once they see no light and feel aggravation. Just those and nothing more. Then, they're left there to be smothered underneathe all that as it grows exponentially with the darkeness' echoes of denial, regret, and longing. Longing for only one thing. Though, there are several ways to achieve so, one is clear as the daylight that never existed once the curtains were drawn and the bolts locked in place. This world was created. The stretched corridors are lined with various shades of gray pitching to black, never white. And, the walls are stirred from eternal smoothness with scratches, cells, and dents. Some arms lay in sight from the outside of their cells and some keep to themselves.

All cells were designed to be dismall and dank with wretchedness, but there were men that made their presence known to their quarters and kept to themselves and then the room would spill those men's auras and they weren't as dank. They were horrible to be in, as all their melancholy floods your senses. Though, nothing is out of place. All smells agreeable and the sight is ubiquitous. Nevertheless, it is unnerving to be in a room where men think.

The bars of his cell were a respite from the solitary he was sent. He had no more companion for this term of the prison. They made sure of that. Poor chap shouldn't have talked with him.

The linen of his bed was still pure white barring where he now sat. His back pressed to the wall and head leaning toward the small square of the outside world, he sat. He sat all day to-day without moving and without giving an inch. His guards were starting to worry if he had drugs inside solitary that weren't prescribed. He had them before the last day of his first term inside after all. Still no lead where he got them.

His back to the wall, he sat and thought. He sat and thought of all the things he had done inside this hell hole and what he would do when he got out. He sat and thought of all the things added do his sentence though there were none. They couldn't really tell. He made sure of that. He sat and thought of all the people he would have to come into terms with seeing without his grin and with it.

Mostly, with it. Stupid.

He sat and thought, most of all, in any room he was in--caged and unafraid--he thought and sat for hours just because of Wright and how contrite his feelings and thoughts were of the man's life and his morals and his sensibilities. He thought of why things turned out the way they did and all blame still landed on him. Though what he did was justice in his own right. His own.

Trite's justice is not flawed when you think about all his morals. Morally.

What about how he would've done? How about he did it? Never mind, scratch that thought.

There was clanking and he still thought of him. Was he inferior? Was he the victor?

"You should stop it with the drama moments, you know? Gets old around here."

"Never gets old, when I can see your ugly mug every weekend." He shifted to look past the man's head.

"I would count myself lucky, if I was you--"

"You're not."

"Says me, because there are lots of mugshots here. Lots. You earn yo--"

"I still have rights. Shut up about what's earned, you never earned anything--also, now. Look at you. You're round." He stared directly into the intruder's eyes. He should be thinking right about now. Should be getting ready.

"Didn't you hear me? I said you're lucky. That's it." The man trudged up to where he was and called for a guard to bring him a chair. This would be a long talk.

"Yeah, I heard that I was. Don't believe any of that," said the convict.

"Yeah. You wouldn't be here if luck would've had it. Now, would you? Of course, that friend of yours is slick, he'll catch on, right?" snickered the man, intruder.

"'Course, too chicken to ball up when he wants something. He'll jail me." The convict turned to where the square of freedom laid. It was snowing already? What month is it? Oh, it's--

"Hey, you listening?" asked the irritated voice.

Who was talking to him again? Oh, it was the warden. Splendid.

"No, not really. I'm not particularly interested in unintelligent dribble. You may continue to drone though. Fits the weather."

"You're a sad and twisted man, Mr Armando."

"That name doesn't exist behind bars. It exists only in name, nothing more and nothing less..." the ebony-haired man looked up to the sky for the first time he's been spaced out on the "outside." Outside.

"The world's dirty, isn't it? I, mean, we make laws to suit common men. Common. What does that mean?"

"Have you lost it? This ain't an asylum kid."

"It is." He twisted his head and looked down on the jail warden.

"It is when you're with me. I can't stand for interlopers. Gets on my nerves, you know. Old man." He finished without lifting anymore muscle than he needed. The snow looked cold.

"One of these days, I'll get you for those things."

"Yeah. Because I'm quarantined and being noticed. You'll definitely do that. Oh, warden, you might wanna zip up your fly. Nobody wants to see that. Here, I mean. No offense you your wife. You have one right?"

Banged the cell shut. He thought some more. The snow looked cold.

Insanely me ;)

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