I can’t even remember why they put me in this stinkin’ place, the damn bastards. Seems to me like my drunken ass is always in trouble.

But something’s wrong.

I got bruises on top of bruises and my arm feels like it was pulled clear from the socket. They musta beat me pretty bad before throwing me in here. Rough justice. Since the world went to hell, I guess rough justice is the only kind we got.

 It’s as dark as a black cat’s ass in here. If it weren’t for that one bullet hole in the door, I wouldn’t be able to see much of anything.  I watch people walking by but no one is paying me any mind. Even when I bang on the door and roar at them to let me free, they just keep walking.

I fall asleep again. I’m not sure for how long. I’m woken by the burning light streaming in through the open door as I’m hauled out. “Look, I’m sorry,” I mumble. My lips are numbed by sleep and  liquor. I’m not sure if they even hear me. Nobody’s listening and the air is thick with a feeling I can’t name. It scares the shit out of me. “Damn it,” I yell, “I said I’m sorry. What the hell is going on here!”

They drag me to the judging place. Fear is burning through my blood like a bush fire. Michael’s, is there, our leader. Stone-faced, an avenging angel. But why? I drank too much, right? What happened? Where’s Lola and the baby?

“Tom Harris. You are hereby charged with murder of your wife and daughter on the night of February 1st….”

That’s when memories begin to swim back to me, like hungry sharks smelling blood in water, and right then… I wish to God they’d just left me to die in that fucking hole.


Helga Pearson is somewhat embarrassed by the fact that she has FOUR cats. She should really be embarrassed by her tendency to overshare about the books she is currently reading. She occasionally writes as well - but she's not sure yet if she should be embarrassed by this.

You may also like...

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *