Flowers for Andy

The gun dropped at his feet. Before stooping to pick it up, he glanced around to see if anybody had noticed. He was in a parking lot but things weren't right. They were jumbled and out of place.

To his surprise, Andy had trouble picking up the shiny .45. He grabbed it awkwardly. Once in his clasp he hugged it to his midsection, attempting in vain to hide it under his shirt. It felt like the pistol wanted to get away from him.

He was panicking. He knew if somebody saw him with it they'd call the cops for sure. He had to get it home and use it. Use it to kill his father before he could do something terrible again.

He started to run towards home, concealing the weapon as best he could but nothing looked familiar. He ran toward a clump of trees until he hit a fence. It was a dead end. The gun was feeling larger and larger in his hand. Impossible to hide. Everyone must be noticing. Anxiety threatened to overwhelm him. He just knew he was going to get caught. His breathing was shallow, short and almost hurt.

---

The loud crash of a nearby cell door slamming woke him. Andy was glad to be out of his nightmare that was just another play on an all-too-familiar theme.

Slowly it dawned on him that he wasn't dead. That he had come back again. And then he remembered - there was a locked door between him and the outside world. The acrid smell of the confined, darkened cell offered strange comfort. He tried moving his arms but found they were bound, strapped down tight, as were his head and legs. He relaxed against the restraints after a brief moment of claustrophobic struggle.

As his mind drifted back to reality he became aware of the closed-circuit camera trained on the table where he lay strapped down. The device's red light was on, which meant someone was watching.

Someone was always watching.

smiled. No matter how they watched, no matter how careful they were, he would win in the end. Win and get out of this place. Win and stop breathing the hateful air that fueled his body. It was only a matter of time, and he already knew that time didn't matter at all.

---

“What I can't understand is why this boy is still in a correctional facility. I mean, look at the record. It speaks for itself. Andy needs the resources of a mental health facility. There's only so much you can do here, Dr. Dillinger.”

“I couldn't agree with you more, Dr. Grant, but I can't do it without his cooperation and he's just refusing to do anything.”

“Except trying to kill himself.”

“Yes, except trying to kill himself.”

The pause in the conversation lingered as the two doctors waited for the other to resume. Dr. Cecelia Grant, the younger and weaker willed of the two, gave in.

“Given what I've seen here today, Dr. Dillinger, I believe it's in Andy's best interest to be moved as soon as possible.”

“You are aware that Andy has demonstrated extreme antisocial behavior in the past year? Do you have a facility that can deliver the maximum security setting he requires? He seems intent on hurting anyone he can get his hands on, not just on hurting himself.”

Dr. Grant studied the file more intently.

“I see what you mean,” she said after a few minutes of reading, “But can I at least go and talk to him for a few minutes? I'd like to have the opportunity to assess him myself.”

“Be my guest. He won't say a word to me anymore – or to anyone.”

---

As Dr. Grant entered the room, the guard accompanying her turned on the overhead lights, illuminating a table and a bound figure prostrate upon it. Andy screamed for the lights to be turned off. The guard poked at Andy with his club to make him stop. Andy screamed louder.