ORIGINAL: 25 To Life
Summary: she killed somebody, apparently
Word count: 895
About the story: This was written as a prologue for one of
aznsapphire's fanfiction stories, back in the day. Later, I adapted it as a original snippet.
Slowly, as he walked towards it, his eyes examined the building, the yellow chafing front, bars on windows - some missing, though - tall, menacing walls, barbed wire under high voltage, lives ruined, lives lost, forever gone. He inhaled deeply as the front gate, huge iron metal armor opened and allowed him to enter. He walked slowly, reluctantly as if he had done something wrong - and maybe he has, by coming here - and he swallowed as the guard stuck a nameplate with big red letters screaming VISITOR on his jacket. Not resident, he’s just a guest. It doesn’t make it easier though, not one bit.
They sound like screams and calls for help, but its just people talking behind the thick walls, and their voices sound distorted by the very notion of the place he found himself in. And there’s nothing normal about this place, the Louisiana state corrections facility for women. He has made such a mistake by coming. Maybe he should turn around and leave?
No.
The guard opened the door for him and he stepped inside a big room, nothing resembling the rooms in prison movies he saw. This one was empty, with white walls and blue straight line dividing them half way from the floor to the ceiling just like earth and the sky were divided somewhere on the horizon. It was silent, so quiet that he could hear the sound of his own heart beating in synchronization with ticking of the clock on the wall, except his seemed to be two times faster.
Suddenly the voices approached from the other side of the room and he looked up towards the entrance/exit from the inside of the prison and saw a guard pushing the button then unlocking the door. The heavy bars slid to the side with a loud rumble making him cringe, making him think of cages in the Zoo and all those wild animals locked up inside of them. He stood motionless in his spot, carefully watching the guard step into the visiting area and then motioning for the prisoner to follow.
It surprised him when he saw blue denim outfit on her, washed out and probably uncomfortable as hell. He expected orange jumpsuit and chains around her ankles and wrists, a scar on her face and a mad look in her eyes. He scoffed at himself for being an idiot and swore not to see any more inmate movies again.
It was happening in slow motion. She walked in small steps looking down to the floor. And he swallowed in anticipation, wiped his sweaty palms against his - comfortable - jeans and blinked. She blinked too and then - dear Lord - looked up, into his eyes and he wanted to fall down on his knees and disappear.
He saw her picture before; she sent it in one of the letters. It was a picture of a beautiful young lady, smiling and radiating with joy, taken somewhere in the forest or in the park on a sunny day. He hair was glowing like the sun itself borrowed some of the shine and wrapped it around her face, and he could almost hear her laugh while watching the photo, like he was there when it was taken.
She sat on the other side of the long counter and patiently placed her hands on it in front of her. Her big eyes were studying him and he tried to remember from the photo which color they were. Green? No, brown. She didn’t say a word as she watched him stand on the other side of the room, reluctant to come closer, to sit down in front of her and finally say hello after all this time.
Finally she smiled, and she probably considered him silly for being so afraid. Tilting her head to the side, making her long dirty blond tresses slide over her shoulders, she spoke, “You must be Harry.” Her voice was smooth as silk and so lady-like, with just a tinge of that cute southern accent he so desperately tried to loose over the years. “Yeah.” He answered quietly, like a child admitting he did something wrong to his parents. “So why don’t you come and sit down then, Harry?” She pouted teasingly, “I don’t bite. No matter what people say.” She giggled at her own comment and crossed her arms over her chest.
He swallowed once again and then took a step forward. Then another and another, all the way to where a hard wooden chair stood, waiting for someone to sit on it and warm it after a long time of being abandoned and avoided.
“Hi… Meghan.” He smiled meekly and inhaled deeply. It felt so strange saying her name; he only wrote it - incorrectly, of course - until she kindly asked him to pay attention to the sender’s address on the back of every letter she wrote. And he blushed seeing how wrong he was. He wondered if he was also wrong about her, too. Maybe he misread the indictment, the court transcripts and verdict. Maybe this is some other Meghan and not the one sent to prison after she was found guilty of murder. Because, seeing her sitting there in front of him, looking at him with such innocent eyes he was sure he had the wrong one.
The end.
Word count: 895
About the story: This was written as a prologue for one of
aznsapphire's fanfiction stories, back in the day. Later, I adapted it as a original snippet.
Slowly, as he walked towards it, his eyes examined the building, the yellow chafing front, bars on windows - some missing, though - tall, menacing walls, barbed wire under high voltage, lives ruined, lives lost, forever gone. He inhaled deeply as the front gate, huge iron metal armor opened and allowed him to enter. He walked slowly, reluctantly as if he had done something wrong - and maybe he has, by coming here - and he swallowed as the guard stuck a nameplate with big red letters screaming VISITOR on his jacket. Not resident, he’s just a guest. It doesn’t make it easier though, not one bit.
They sound like screams and calls for help, but its just people talking behind the thick walls, and their voices sound distorted by the very notion of the place he found himself in. And there’s nothing normal about this place, the Louisiana state corrections facility for women. He has made such a mistake by coming. Maybe he should turn around and leave?
No.
The guard opened the door for him and he stepped inside a big room, nothing resembling the rooms in prison movies he saw. This one was empty, with white walls and blue straight line dividing them half way from the floor to the ceiling just like earth and the sky were divided somewhere on the horizon. It was silent, so quiet that he could hear the sound of his own heart beating in synchronization with ticking of the clock on the wall, except his seemed to be two times faster.
Suddenly the voices approached from the other side of the room and he looked up towards the entrance/exit from the inside of the prison and saw a guard pushing the button then unlocking the door. The heavy bars slid to the side with a loud rumble making him cringe, making him think of cages in the Zoo and all those wild animals locked up inside of them. He stood motionless in his spot, carefully watching the guard step into the visiting area and then motioning for the prisoner to follow.
It surprised him when he saw blue denim outfit on her, washed out and probably uncomfortable as hell. He expected orange jumpsuit and chains around her ankles and wrists, a scar on her face and a mad look in her eyes. He scoffed at himself for being an idiot and swore not to see any more inmate movies again.
It was happening in slow motion. She walked in small steps looking down to the floor. And he swallowed in anticipation, wiped his sweaty palms against his - comfortable - jeans and blinked. She blinked too and then - dear Lord - looked up, into his eyes and he wanted to fall down on his knees and disappear.
He saw her picture before; she sent it in one of the letters. It was a picture of a beautiful young lady, smiling and radiating with joy, taken somewhere in the forest or in the park on a sunny day. He hair was glowing like the sun itself borrowed some of the shine and wrapped it around her face, and he could almost hear her laugh while watching the photo, like he was there when it was taken.
She sat on the other side of the long counter and patiently placed her hands on it in front of her. Her big eyes were studying him and he tried to remember from the photo which color they were. Green? No, brown. She didn’t say a word as she watched him stand on the other side of the room, reluctant to come closer, to sit down in front of her and finally say hello after all this time.
Finally she smiled, and she probably considered him silly for being so afraid. Tilting her head to the side, making her long dirty blond tresses slide over her shoulders, she spoke, “You must be Harry.” Her voice was smooth as silk and so lady-like, with just a tinge of that cute southern accent he so desperately tried to loose over the years. “Yeah.” He answered quietly, like a child admitting he did something wrong to his parents. “So why don’t you come and sit down then, Harry?” She pouted teasingly, “I don’t bite. No matter what people say.” She giggled at her own comment and crossed her arms over her chest.
He swallowed once again and then took a step forward. Then another and another, all the way to where a hard wooden chair stood, waiting for someone to sit on it and warm it after a long time of being abandoned and avoided.
“Hi… Meghan.” He smiled meekly and inhaled deeply. It felt so strange saying her name; he only wrote it - incorrectly, of course - until she kindly asked him to pay attention to the sender’s address on the back of every letter she wrote. And he blushed seeing how wrong he was. He wondered if he was also wrong about her, too. Maybe he misread the indictment, the court transcripts and verdict. Maybe this is some other Meghan and not the one sent to prison after she was found guilty of murder. Because, seeing her sitting there in front of him, looking at him with such innocent eyes he was sure he had the wrong one.
The end.