Give Me Life

|Devlin Danielyan|

"Open cell twelve."

The officer yelled to Mrs. Jones at the counter.

Mrs. Jones looked up at Robert and smiled.

"Man." She shook her head.

"That man in there; Sure has a lifetime, of catching up to do in this world." She thought, shaking her head and chuckled.

"You done missed a century." She boomed.

Robert saw Mrs. Jones's face and silently bubbled with anger.

"No way this man deserves to walk, he has no right to even take a breath of fresh air, outside these prison walls.. I want to spit on this guys face..." He bitterly thought.

"How does God, let things like this happen?" He thought again, looking up at the ceiling, and praying for the mercy of Minerva, he had no choice, but to stand in silence, he opened the gate and stepped aside.

Devlin was baffled by the officer standing outside of his cell.

The man looked like he was ready to pulsate and crack.

He flexed his shoulders, and leaned forward to retrieve the rest of his belongings that he gathered together, in a dark blue blanket pouch.

All the pictures of his previous girlfriends of course; Was a bitch taking down. "No wonder the officer looked pissed, he probably wasn't getting any from his wife." Devlin thought, chuckling to himself.

Devlin tsk'd and decided to be a more pain in the ass and stretched, taking his sweet time.

Seven years in the pen was no joke.

He found a hobby in exercising, he pushed more weights then the rest of the guys in there. His favorite work out was leg day; And he never once missed out on a good run, some basketball was eventually fit around his schedule as well, and he read a lot of books.

At 6'7 weighing in at two hundred and one pounds, Devlin was broad and masculine. He had greasy long black hair, which he had one of his inmates cut neatly for him. He slicked down the middle part of the hair, and tied it into a small bun in the back.

Before prison, Devlin only had six tattoo's.

Large, Christian hands, praying on the back of his ankle; The bottle of alcohol on his forearm, a ghastly skeletal face of an Iranian woman with peonies and wind, on his upper arm. A psychedelic picture of 'It' the clown on one leg, and his mother's initials very small on the back of his neck.. And of course; The deathly hallows symbol, in the crease on his right hand.

He got it when he was in high school, and still proud of it, considering he read all of the series, secretly every day in his bedroom.

His Italian best friend Francesco, short for Franco, had the same exact symbol on his hand.

What did they know? They were young, handsome rich boys with bimbo girlfriends and ruled the school. Franco went to prison around the same time as Devlin did. But sadly once you get in and grow older, you change...

Franco was getting in too deep with the drug lords in there, one of the members rounded him at lunch and stabbed him in the stomach.

Franco's last sight was Devlin standing there, with his plate of food in his hands.

It was pure shock.

It wasn't like he didn't try protecting the kid everyday. Before, Franco used to hang around Devlin once in a while.

Sometimes they would play basketball, and sometimes they would talk about their past lives. Franco developed a temper from his roommate, and thought he was being annoying to Devlin, when in reality Devlin didn't mind having at least someone he knew.