Ruthlessly High Maintenance

Prologue

The only light that made it possible to see was that of the pinpricks of sunshine that filtered through the barred window the size of a shoe box.

The place was a sight for sore eyes, for him anyways. The same pristine white walls, the black iron wrought bars. Everything was the same from the acrid taste of the air, that he guessed, was a mix of blood and sweat; to the arbitrary guards who walked like steel dolls who had scuffed limbs.

And then again, for the nth time, he was behind the bars that separate his own reality from everyone else's.

Although, a difference could be seen. Barely. He ignores the fact that he is alone in the cell. That the door is a heavyset cast-iron frame that is built robust. That the imperious guard who holds him under lock and key won't hesitate to blow his brains had he uttered a single word.

But it builds his reality. The four walls of his cell in high security containment comprises his world.

James Anthony was convicted for the president's assassination; for murder.

A heavy set of footsteps echoed from down the hall, followed by more mellow ones.

The sound of metal against metal filled the air and he almost had to cover his ears.

"Your lawyer's here.", says a steely voice. Once the threshold opened, blinding lights overwhelmed his eyes from the lack of exposure.

He composes himself.

The lawyer opened her mouth to speak, but James was faster than her.

He raises his eyes to look at hers, tongue running against his lower lip ever so slightly.

"I didn't do it," he says, declarative, final, and nearly as though binding.