Falling for the Predator

Falling for the Predator: Prologue

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FALLING FOR THE PREDATOR

I clattered into the cell wall, struggling feebly against the might of the two stocky prison guards who had dragged me and thrown me through the iron door. I slid down the wall, panting while sitting on the floor, as they glared down at me, a mix of contempt and smug superiority clearly showing on their faces as they backed out into the corridor. I put my head in my hands, closing my eyes, almost wishing it was a bad dream, that I could go back, and tell Brett where to stick his 'grand plan'.

But I couldn't. I was here. This was me.

"C'mon, 4501, it's not like you don't know the system already", boomed one of the guards. I snorted to myself; that at least was true, but at least juvey before this had people my age, people who knew me from the outside. I heard the officers feet shuffle across the concrete just outside the doorway to my cell, before a loud *CLANG* interrupted the air, assaulting my eardrums. It was the sound of judgement. The sound of finality. The sound of loneliness.

And, then, I heard a cough, from my left. My head bolted up and and I darted to my feet, looking for the source of the noise. And sure enough, there on one of the two beds (I hadn't even noticed there were two...) sat a man. An old man. Perhaps 60, 65. He looked like a typical prisoner, or shipwrecked sailor; apart from the orange overalls of course. His hair was long, wispy grey and matted, trailing down almost to his chin, where it met a beard of similar colour and thickness. His tired, brown eyes looked THROUGH me, not at me, analysing the sight of the scared, weedy 18 year old before him. A moment passed. Then another. All the while his expression did not change; one of slight curiosity, pity, but most of all boredom; he had seen this before, too many times.

After what seemed like a lifetime, he quietly uttered, "And another one bites the dust." He looked at me for a final moment, before turning his back on me and lying on his bunk.

I looked down at my hands, shaking slightly, and remembered what they had done. Perhaps he was right. Was this my life; swinging back and forth from crime and prison, til my dying day came? Maybe I'd die in a place like this, someday, like the old man next to me probably will.

'NO!' came a resolute reply from deep within me. I clenched my fists, and promised myself, this was it.

Mike the criminal was dead.

-- 2 YEARS LATER --

"And remember, you gotta see your parole officer every Tuesday! If you forget, you'll be back in 'ere quicker than you can say 'hopscotch!'" said the old man, peering through his giant spectacles at me, looking more like a comedy sketch than a prison guard. I guess that's why he deals with leavers, not the newbies.

I laughed. "Sure thing, Shanks", I casually replied. Shanks grinned. He got his nickname from being stabbed in the canteen once while stopping a prisoner from smoking. Ever since then, it was like the stick had been removed magically from his ass. He was a little weird, but as prison guards went, he was right up there. I mean, at least he showed some emotion, the rest of them acted like they had that baton of theirs shoved up where the sun don't shine. Permanently.

I grimaced as another guard approached me, carrying the stuff I came in here with 2 years ago. Ahhh, the memories. Not the good ones.

"Right Prisoner 4501, let's get you sorted", he said in a monotonous tone. Like I said, stick up the ass. Maybe we should stab him too.

"Sure thing sir", I said while gathering my stuff.

"Now, your parole meetings are on Tuesdays at the-"

"I know sir", I cut him off, "Shanks told me". I didn't mean to be rude, but two years was long enough for me in this hellhole. I wasn't itching to get out- I was practically salivating for fresh air.

He glanced at me, before sighing and opening the door to freedom, known to the many as the street.

I looked around, taking in the scene outside Salford prison, Manchester. The estates weren't a pretty sight, I had no idea why my parents had traded London for this. I had to admit, though, it was a hell of a lot better than the place I had called home for the past couple of years. At least there was a little freedom to choose which estate to waste away in.

"Just turn up to your meetings 4501, or else I'll be seeing you again soon", the guard stated matter-of-factly, as if he was already plumping up the cushions for my inevitable return.

Just joking. We don't have cushions.

I shook off the comment and just nodded, stepping out onto the street, enjoying being a small, insignificant part of life again.

"Good luck 4501", the guard said, as he closed the iron door behind him. I didn't reply, I didn't even look back.

I never look back. There's too much to look at.