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1
-Angel
There is a chain around my waist that's connected to another chain, which loops through the handcuffs on my wrists. Those chains are connected to a third which links to a fourth that holds the cuffs around my ankles.
I can barely walk. I have to take tiny steps, shuffling my feet as fast as I can with the shackles pulled taught. I can move my arms a little bit but not really enough to do anything, like wipe my nose. I have to lean down to push my hair away from my face and it always falls right back.
This morning marks the first day of my latest case review. Unlike many other inmates, though, I'm not hoping this little charade leads to parole.
For me, there is only one way out of this place and it's in a bag. And it won't be much longer. I'm just going through the motions: I'll say what I need to, clear my conscience.
When the review is over, I'll find a way to get to Jake. I'll be with him again.
Both of the guards-one at each of my elbows-halt their marching and then I hear her voice. The witch that used to call herself my best friend: Avery Campbell.
As if I haven't got enough problems.
She's standing directly in front of me. I make a point of ignoring her, drawing my eyes from the wide tiled floor to the guard beside me. The guard's looking straight ahead, not at Avery, but beyond her. If I react the way I want-wrap my hands around her throat and squeeze until every last bit of air is gone-then I'd never get into the interview room and I'd never be able to tell anyone what a liar, a fraud, and a phony she is. Besides, ignoring Avery is like calling an anorexic "fat." It's the worst possible thing I could do.
The corridor we're standing in erupts with a crackling buzz. The grating squeak of metal hinges echoes. A heavy door on my right swings open.
A small breeze blows as Avery turns on her heel. Her long black hair sways down her back as she struts back up the corridor, shouting to everyone that I'm the idiot, that she's the one who really knows the truth, and she better get her time in my interview.
Like hell she will, I vow, staring daggers into her back until a flickering light draws my attention away. It's coming from the meeting room, just beyond the noisy doorway. I can tell from out here that the size of the room is claustrophobia inducing.
My gut clenches at the sight of a microphone, set atop a single table, centered in the small room. Surrounding the table are four metal framed chairs. Each seat is covered by a worn-looking gray, woolen material.
The first guard watches me as if at any moment I'll come at him with a shiv. The second guard remarks about one of the overhead fluorescents, pointing to the flickering light. I'm careful to remain docile while they remove my cuffs from the chain at my waist and affix them to my chair.
On the other side of the table, propped against the soft blue wall, sets a pair of big black cameras with silent, eye-like lenses. They're hinged upon two sets of solid legs waiting for me to spill my guts-one more time, for posterity. But I have to wait for the ears; the judge and jury which will most likely be embodied in two carefully selected assholes, wearing the requisite suits.
My fingers fidget over the woolen material covering the thin arms of the chair. Pinching at miniscule balls of fluff, I wait for the others filing into the room to settle down. There are three: a man, a woman, and my lawyer-Something Brandon, who looks like a man, but seems genderless. Slowly stripping the lint away, I can just make out the faint snap of each thin fiber as it stretches and breaks and floats lazily down to the faded green floor.
My gaze wanders towards the door as it closes and I can't help but think of it as some kind of metaphor. For half a bitter second, I swear Avery's penetrating eyes are back, sneaking a peek through the small window over the handle. Those bright green orbs, so full of curiosity and malice, churn my stomach and I'm glad I skipped breakfast.
"I hate her." I don't mean to mumble the thought and bite down on the tip of my tongue. Squeezing my eyes shut, I count to three then check the small window again. Nothing.
Looking around, I'm glad to see that no one seemed to notice my slip.
Once everyone has settled in, Mister Brandon, who's taken a seat at my left side, prompts me to begin. I draw a deep breath, ignoring my dry mouth, trying to focus on this oration. But the microphone I'm staring at looms too large. I study the black meshed end pointing directly at me; its' flat top and rounded edges.
"My name is Angel Patel-" I manage to squeak before my voice cuts out, choked by the arid lump in my throat.
"Take your time." My gaze shifts up to follow a soft voice to the other side of the wide table. It floats from the plain woman sitting directly across from me. Staring back, she folds her hands over her lap. Her hair is pulled back in an unreasonably tight bun: the type that promises to make her hair line recede. The lenses of her glasses are stern rectangles that remind me of a high school librarian. The flat brown eyes behind them do not say anything.
A man on her left adjusts one of the two black lenses pointing at me-the eyes, coming into focus. The microphone recording us is making a memory-it will replay everything later on. The people in here are all ears-waiting, listening for information. I cannot help but think that this small room with its' azure walls is like a skull, keeping us inside. I am the brain-dictating the instructions and operating on another level. I am above them all, but somehow still under authority.
The words I need to say are ready and waiting, but my throat feels as if I've swallowed a baseball. I can't shove them past the mass, it's too big. And then other words leap into my head:
Quirky grin becomes friend-
Good friend becomes best friend-
Best friend becomes girlfriend-
Who becomes no one at all.
The lyrics thicken the lump in my throat. I remember Jake singing this song, the way he used to lean into the microphone, brushing his lips against the metal. That powerful voice growling out the angst.
And me. The way I used to hold him: palms tightly locked behind his back, my head on his chest, dancing to the rhythm of his heartbeat as he kissed my hair. I was so sure we'd stay that way.
Deep breath, I coax, willing myself to stay in the moment. Don't drift, Angel. Don't. And then, more of Jakes words break through:
A quivering flame lights a shooting pain.
