(ON HOLD) My Once Murdered

One: James Ashford

Fanfic sequel to mollybutt's My Once Best Friend.

It's a short 8-chaptered story, and it's better for you to read it to understand this. Although I guess it isn't strictly necessary.

(Link posted here shortly)

Permission was indeed granted for me to do this, so thanks.

READ AUTHOR'S NOTE AT THE BOTTOM.

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One: James Ashford

Hartford Prison was a place only the worst under 21’s were sent. Homicide, genocide, terrorism, and acts of that kind were your one way ticket there. There were teenagers as young as thirteen in there, but they were on the other side of the building from the nearly 21’s. They were the criers, dreading the following eight years, thinking the worst. They knew the rules: you were in there until your 21st birthday, when a three-day court meeting was assembled. The first day entailed of five or six hours discussing and arguing the criminal’s actions and mental health – things like that. The second day was four hours of pure tests and questioning to the criminal. The final and third day was just a short one or two hour meeting, without the criminal, in which it was decided whether to keep him in a separate over 21 branch of Hartford prison, or to send him to Washmoore Prison – the largest prison building in the whole of Europe. In there, people were placed in cells depending on the severity of their crime. The shoplifters or car-hijackers were in the first couple of levels.  Kidnappers and crimes like stalking were next, followed by those who committed manslaughter. Therefore, the building was made up of different wings, all added in time to the main building, and it stretched out to cover a large bit of land. It also had many floors, the top ones newer as they were added when needed.

James Ashford was waiting for his birthday. He wasn’t dreading it, but he wasn’t excited. He was just waiting. In five days, his birthday would be upon him and, in six days, the first meeting would be adjourned. He consoled himself slightly with convincing himself that this meeting wouldn’t be as formal and long drawn as usual court cases. He’d heard stories, and they all started with saying how much easier it was to deal with compared to the usual judge and jury courts.

Somehow, he just had a feeling he’d be staying in the adult branch of Hartford. The prison guards usually referred to the inmates in the under 21 to be stuck in the baby branch. How else were the guards going to entertain themselves? Here, they were paid, and they could make fun of dangerous people, without any risk of severe injury. Coupled with the fact that they can, if they wish, beat the worst behaving inmates, they rejoiced in riling them up. James had not a scar, nor a bruise. He was patient, quiet and lacked the violent reaction desired, so they left him alone, and made the most of other explosive young men or women.

The day came, and he spent the day dedicated to the anniversary of his birth being prepared for the next three days. He was woken up at nine, and sent to lunch at one; after four hours of reliving his life. At two, the training restarted, and he was sent to his cell at eight, where he had dinner. Weirdly enough, he fell to sleep instantly, sleeping like a baby. Only the next morning did he realise he’d been slipped pills in his food; after all they couldn’t have a restless criminal, lest he ruins it all.

He was transferred, handcuffed, to a car. His mind wasn’t absorbing his surroundings, it was just blank. Before he knew it, he’d been seated and his legs tied to the chair at the front of a large hall. The roof was high, like in the old gothic cathedrals, and the walls were covered by paintings, directly painted onto the walls. Carvings were carved on the top of pillars, and the floor was a smooth marble.

“We hold this meeting to discuss the fate of one James Ashburn. Will the named stand up.”

With some difficulty, he stood, using his hands to stop him from falling face first to the floor and taking the chair with him.

“State your name, birth date, crimes and victims.”

He looked up at the judge, a short and skinny man with a sharp face, and ignored the pain he felt from the rope digging into his knees. “James Patrick Ashburn. 29th of October 1991. Double homicide, obsessive stalking and accidental manslaughter; and Emily Danielle Riband, Joey Mackintosh Junior and Emilia Daisy Lorfield.”

The judge kept a straight face, and turned to the other occupants of the room: prison guards, a few impartial lawyers and some well-picked civilians, also impartial. “This man, as you heard, is accused of these crimes. He had, when faced with a jury, pleaded guilty. Lawyer Jenson, his lawyer, pleaded for mental illness.” A pause, and no interruptions. “The guilty party has murdered Ms Riband in cold blood when...”

James didn’t hear anything else, he was drowning in memories. Some from four years before, others from before his incarceration, not eighteen months ago, but all of them bloody and creepy – bad enough to be jailed for life if it was for the best. He understood, and he didn’t like it or hate it. He just understood, because that is what he is. Someone who understands without an opinion, he waits without impatience. Understanding, he’d been told once, was the only way you’ll be at peace with other people.

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Surnames may be changed, these I have invented myself. I have asked mollybutt about them, still no answer - I'll keep you posted.

Also, I don't think Hartford Prison or Washoore prison exist. I invented the names and stuff.

And, with the copyright thing, could someone explain the different types, and stuff?