Not the way it's supposed to be...
I wake up staring at dark grey and white stripes, the bunk above empty as usual and wardens doing that irritating as hell 'wake up call' shit. The blaring choking goose siren blasting from the loudspeakers, accompanied by groans and yawns and the occasional exclaimed explicative. I sit up, ignoring the announcement for my Cellblock to get their asses in gear and head to the showers, and I as I run my fingers through my hair, I have to wonder...yet again: Why the hell am I still here?
Some metal bars, concrete, and armed human guards...all that's stopping me from saying 'screw this' as I do some bending and breaking and possibly killing. But then...that's a lie. Got more weighing me down and keeping me in this hell hole of a 'correctional facility' than the construction of the building and the security personnel.
I hear my number called, then my name as my cell door slides open and I look up to glance at the uniformed man standing there, hand resting warily on his billy-stick. Shaking my head, I have to roll my eyes. "Good Morning to you too Turner..."
I stand up and brush past him, both enjoying and being revolted by his tiny jump. I ignore the jeers and empty threats from other members in my block as I fall into line. "How's the arm Jackson?" And the burly red head glares at me, cradling her cast. But they all shut up...so the promising finger across her throat threat gesture...however lame, is worth it.
Showers are taken, and I'm left alone. Meal is eaten, and I'm left alone. We're let out in the yard...and I'm left alone, then put back in our cells and again, I'm left alone.
I lay on my bunk bed, staring up and dark grey and white stripes. Around me the laughter and swearing and loud talking echos and I cover my eyes with an arm, the dark blue material of my prison uniform rough and almost prickly against my skin. Why...the hell am I still here?
We're let out of our cells and into the rec room, and I stretch my arms above my head..rolling my shoulders and ignoring the few weak taunts tossed my way even as I am chalking my pool stick. Somebody yells for the warden to turn on the television, and it flickers to life. The one and only 5'oclock news greeting the groans of the females in the room.
I line up a shot. 1 bar of soap and some skinny bitch's box of cookies sent to her by her mother. I line up my next shot. A carton of smokes. I line up my next shot...and the name Sunnydale distracts me. The game can go to hell for all I care as I watch. No good news comes out of that hellhole but it's always funny to see how the officials cover up obviously supernatural shit.
Like one of those freaky sci-fi shows, it was like the words and the pictures and names and times and causes of deaths rush at me, crashing into me like a wave of impending denial. Three words slice into me. Buffy Summers Dead. My shot is lined up and I miss...dropping my cue and backing away from the table, the television from all the realities that include the perky voice on the television going into vague detail about her death.
The world seems to slow down around me. This was not how it was supposed to be. Buffy was the good one, she didn't stay dead. She'd have a beautiful death, a normal one or go out saving the world. She wouldn't be shot. It was all wrong.
Lies. All I can see and hear are lies and the pool table slides across the room, crashing into the television set and through the smoke and sparks and over the din of swearing and guards yelling. I can only hear my self murmur. "This is not how it's supposed to be.."
I sit here, in this small and cold little room. In solitary confinement...heh, the very idea and even as I rock myself and I can only think...Why the hell am I here?
Some metal bars, concrete, and armed human guards...all that's stopping me from saying 'screw this' as I do some bending and breaking and possibly killing. But then...that's a lie. Got more weighing me down and keeping me in this hell hole of a 'correctional facility' than the construction of the building and the security personnel.
I hear my number called, then my name as my cell door slides open and I look up to glance at the uniformed man standing there, hand resting warily on his billy-stick. Shaking my head, I have to roll my eyes. "Good Morning to you too Turner..."
I stand up and brush past him, both enjoying and being revolted by his tiny jump. I ignore the jeers and empty threats from other members in my block as I fall into line. "How's the arm Jackson?" And the burly red head glares at me, cradling her cast. But they all shut up...so the promising finger across her throat threat gesture...however lame, is worth it.
Showers are taken, and I'm left alone. Meal is eaten, and I'm left alone. We're let out in the yard...and I'm left alone, then put back in our cells and again, I'm left alone.
I lay on my bunk bed, staring up and dark grey and white stripes. Around me the laughter and swearing and loud talking echos and I cover my eyes with an arm, the dark blue material of my prison uniform rough and almost prickly against my skin. Why...the hell am I still here?
We're let out of our cells and into the rec room, and I stretch my arms above my head..rolling my shoulders and ignoring the few weak taunts tossed my way even as I am chalking my pool stick. Somebody yells for the warden to turn on the television, and it flickers to life. The one and only 5'oclock news greeting the groans of the females in the room.
I line up a shot. 1 bar of soap and some skinny bitch's box of cookies sent to her by her mother. I line up my next shot. A carton of smokes. I line up my next shot...and the name Sunnydale distracts me. The game can go to hell for all I care as I watch. No good news comes out of that hellhole but it's always funny to see how the officials cover up obviously supernatural shit.
Like one of those freaky sci-fi shows, it was like the words and the pictures and names and times and causes of deaths rush at me, crashing into me like a wave of impending denial. Three words slice into me. Buffy Summers Dead. My shot is lined up and I miss...dropping my cue and backing away from the table, the television from all the realities that include the perky voice on the television going into vague detail about her death.
The world seems to slow down around me. This was not how it was supposed to be. Buffy was the good one, she didn't stay dead. She'd have a beautiful death, a normal one or go out saving the world. She wouldn't be shot. It was all wrong.
Lies. All I can see and hear are lies and the pool table slides across the room, crashing into the television set and through the smoke and sparks and over the din of swearing and guards yelling. I can only hear my self murmur. "This is not how it's supposed to be.."
I sit here, in this small and cold little room. In solitary confinement...heh, the very idea and even as I rock myself and I can only think...Why the hell am I here?