Game of Death

21

"Cole Jefferson, you are hereby sentenced to life in solitary confinement at St Johns Institute for the Mentally Unstable with no possibility of parole." Life. No parole. I can't say I wasn't surprised with my sentence, honestly, I was expecting jail time. Jail time probably would have been more interesting, or at least, less lonely, but I guess they figured someone who killed 156, I mean, 157 people is pretty mentally unstable. Doesn't matter though. I'm stuck here now. I slowly begin inspecting my new surroundings, a small room with blinding white walls which would now become my home for the rest of, well forever. There's a small desk in one corner and a toilet and small basin in the other. One thing I notice is that there's no shower. I make a note to myself to ask someone whether I get an allocated shower time or if they just expect me to take a bath in the sink. Finally, there's the bed with a mattress that feels rather like a rock shoved up against the wall. They hadn't let me bring any of my possessions here with me so the place felt rather empty. I guess there's always the chance that someone will bring me a present. Ha, who am I kidding? That's never going to happen. No one's going to want to visit the psycho killer.

There are no windows in this place either, just a fluorescent which was constantly flickering. That, along with the ticking of the clock on the wall is going to drive me insane before the day is up. Outside my room I hear footsteps and I cock my head to the side to try and work out what they're talking about. They speak in hushed tones, too soft for me to hear but the sound of their footsteps stop momentarily as a sheet of paper is slid under my door before they continue of down the hall. I cross the room in nearly three and a half steps and pick up the paper. It's a schedule. I find myself being slightly disappointed though I don't know what I was expecting; a congratulations card would have been nice. I read the schedule and screw my nose up with disgust. Great, everyday of the rest of my life is going to be exactly the same. Except for Sunday, I get half an hour of 'exercise time'. Oh, and I get twenty minutes of shower time three days a week. How exciting! I rip the schedule up into tiny pieces and scatter it across the floor as the door swings open. My head snaps up and I see none other than Maggie herself. Reacting instinctively, I lunge forward at her and I believe I may have tried to throw a punch although I was unsuccessful due to the fact that the two guards who were escorting her were on me within a second. I fought against them for as long as I could until one of them managed to inject something into my arm.

 When I came to my left hand was handcuffed to the metal bed frame and Maggie sat on the desk with her feet resting on the chair, making absolutely no effort to hide her amusement. "What the hell do you want?" I grumble, my head still hurting from when one of the guards hit me. She smirks at me, her finger tracing patterns into the surface of the desk. "I thought you might have wanted company," she smiles. "Well, I guess you thought wrong then," I snap, glaring at her. She simply laughs. "You won't be saying that when you're eighty years old and no one cares about you anymore," she points out. Deep down, I knew she was right but there was no way in hell I would give her the satisfaction of knowing that. "How'd they even let you in here anyway?" I ask, genuinely curious. "I have friends in high places," she replies. Ah, right, she was a policewoman, I'd forgotten about that. Probably just flashed her badge and the let her in. 

I take in her appearance for the first time since she walked in. She wore light blue button up shirt with black slacks and her once lazily styled black hair was tightly pulled back into a ponytail. Everything about her screamed military and I wouldn't have been surprised if she had previously spent time in the army. It was then that I realized that I didn't even know her true age. I'd always assumed she was about 17 but now, she looked closer to 30. "How old are you?" "I'm 28," she responds, almost unsure. Judging by the confused look on her face, I'd say she was trying to work why I'd even asked that. "28 years old," she confirms. She sees what's left of my schedule and laughs, "I see you're having fun already."

Ignoring her remark, I try to lie down on my back which proves to be a mistake, I soon realize. I hadforgotten I was handcuffed and was now lying in an incredibly awkward, and just as uncomfortableposition. I close my eyes hoping that Maggie will leave and never return but something tells me that'snot very likely. Obviously bored, Maggie stands up to leave. The door swings open and slams shutbehind her. Life. No parole. The weight of those two words finally hit me. I am never going to have a real life. Inever thought I wanted a real life, but now, I'm not so sure. I would never be able to get married or havechildren of my own. I would never get to travel overseas or go to university and, just like Maggie said, Iwould grow old and die alone without anyone giving a fuck. Life. No parole. I honestly thought I would be able to handle my sentence. Guess I was wrong