Author's Note: This short story contains violence, explicit language, mild drug and alcohol use, and explicit adult themes (heterosexual as well as homosexual). If any of these themes offend you in any way, please feel free to read any of the other stories I have written, or to continue to browse the site.
This is the story of a man who lost everything and had no interest in getting it back. A small, frail, comatose little prick who let it all slip through his fingers one day and decided that was the end of it. And this little shit...well, you wouldn't believe it, but he still hasn't worked up the guts to kill himself yet.
Yea, fancy that.
When the counselor had asked him for names to put on his visiting list, he just crossed his arms and kept his fucking mouth shut.
"You get ten names, Mr. Powalski," the middle-aged vixen informed him, sliding a clipboard and pen towards him from across her finely varnished desk. He stared at it for a few moments, ten equidistant black lines formed into two columns on pale white paper. He looked at it and wondered how easy it would be to cut fine gashes like that into both his wrists. Five on the left, five on the right. Maybe one across the neck just to keep it symmetrical.
"Isn't there anyone," she asked, removing the thinly framed reading glasses from the bridge of her muzzle. Her eyes were a light blue that seemed to radiate against her slightly faded orange fur.
There's a chain attached to the end of the pen, he thought. Maybe I can strangle myself with it. She'll probably rush over to stop me, though.
"Maybe friends who might come and visit you?"
She's thin, well-proportioned, but she doesn't seem like the type to body-build. Maybe a morning jog a few times a week, but that's it. A swift kick to the ovaries should send her to the floor pretty quickly.
"Distant family? Or maybe an acquaintance?"
I reach forward and press my fingertips into the clipboard, sliding it back towards her. She sighs and replaces her glasses, signing the bottom of the form where it says "Counselor's Signature". A manilla folder seems to appear out of nowhere and its filled to the brim with paperwork. She slips the form in with the rest of my file and adjusts it so it's sitting at a perfect right angle with the edge of the desk.
"You know what this means, correct?"
I tug at the chain that attaches my handcuffs to the ankle restraints. They're fine and polished and really compliment my dark purple jumpsuit. Another disappointed sigh escapes her lips and she presses the button on her intercom, eyeing me once more before calling the guard in.
"He's done. You can take him now."
Barely a week passes, and the old guard who always wreaks of brandy and cheap cigarettes comes by, rattling his truncheon against the bars of my cell. He grunts a brutal cough and waves the tip of his weapon at me.
"Get up," he gruffs, "Visitor."
Visiting will only be permitted during authorized hours on designated visiting days.
Mondays and Wednesdays for A block. For B it's Tuesdays and Thursdays, and C gets Fridays and Saturdays.
Sunday is reserved for the chaplain.
He's at the farthest booth in the hall and I see him snickering through the bulletproof soundproof glass plating. The row guard hands me off to the area guard and he follows close behind me until I sit myself down.
I don't even move to pick of the receiver. I just stare at him through six inches of reinforced glass. He picks up his and pinches it between his head and shoulder while he digs around inside of his jacket pockets. His blue eyes lock onto mine and he grins, motioning for me to pick up my receiver. He mouths the words "stop fucking around" as he pulls out a crumpled pack of cigarettes.
Visits are to be conducted in an orderly manner and in accordance with all regulations. Violation of visiting rules will result in suspension of visiting privileges.
I reach for the receiver with both hands because there isn't enough slack in the chain to let me do otherwise.
"You look good in that jumpsuit," he scoffs. "It really sets off your eyes."
Inmates must request changes to their visiting list through their respective counselor. It may take up to twenty (20) days for changes to take effect.
"And those chains? Well, I think you already know, but I think that stuff is damn hot. Really."
Visits will be thirty (30) minutes in duration.
"You're into that sort of thing, right? Of course you are."
An inmate may have one (1) visit per day.
"Shit, I hope you are."
"What the fuck are you doing here?"
Falco pulls a cigarette from the pack and dangles it from the corner of his beak. "That's no way to talk to a visitor, Leon." A chrome lighter flips out from inside of his sleeve and he twirls it like a small baton in and out of the gaps between his fingers. "You've gotta sweet-talk me." The lighter seems to dance across his knuckles and with a flick of the wrist a small flame bursts out and latches onto the tip of his cigarette. "You've gotta make me feel like I'm floating on a fucking cloud. Leave me wanting more, wanting to come back, you know?" The cover on the lighter clamps shut and the flame suffocates within it.
Suffocation. Too bad the pillows are too firm for that.
"You're not on my list," I tell him. "I don't have anyone on my list."
"I know," he replies calmly, putting his boot against the glass to tip his chair back onto its hind legs. He scans to his left and then gets caught staring at something to his right but there's a partition on my side of the glass.
"Damn, did you see that ass," he asked, shooting a small puff of smoke from the side of his beak. "I'd fuck that in a heart beat."
"They're probably looking over the sheet now," I explain.
He's still eyeing whoever or whatever is across the room. "Yea, you're probably right." I start to speak but he pulls the receiver from the side of his head, holds it up over his head and points to it with his free hand, signaling for whoever or whatever is across the room with a lustful smirk.
"I don't believe you."
"Huh? What was that?"
"I said, 'You're unbelievable.'"
"And that's why you love me, babe."
I take the receiver and press it to the glass, which is visiting area lingo for "Fuck you." He rolls his eyes and removes the cigarette from his mouth, twitching it between two fingers to kick off the remnants of ash. His boot slides off the glass, he dips forward, and a single blue finger presses up to the glass, which is visiting area lingo for "Give me one more chance."
I put the receiver to my ear. We both lock eyes for at least a whole minute and he just smiles, sucking on his cigarette and blowing thick plumes of smoke between us.
"Are you holding up okay?"
"I can watch my ass."
"Ooh, so can I."
I move to hang up but he presses his hand against the glass, which I can only assume is visiting area lingo for "I'm the most pathetic piece of shit in the whole fucking room."
"You can't have that many allies. I mean, considering what you're in for and all."
"I don't need any."
"Oh, come on. I've been on that side of the glass before, too. Don't kid me."
"So I know what they do to guys like you. You've gotta start playing the politics, Leon. Join some fascist group or beat the shit out of a child molester or something. Prove you're a fucking man."
"I'm going to hang up now."
"Can I visit you again?"
I let out an exasperated sigh and run my hand up the top of my head. "After they find out you aren't even supposed to be here, I doubt you'll be able to at all."
"I can work something out," he says with a warm, inviting grin. "But I need to know that you won't just blow me off."
All it takes is a twist of the arm and I can hang up. I can slam the receiver down on the wall and declare our conversation–our acquaintance–terminated. Void. Deceased.
"Sure," I tell him. "Sure."
He beams. "See you around, Powalski."
I hang up the receiver and the room guard is signaled that my visit is over.