This is a piece of literature I am writing for an English class but I would be interested in knowing what you guys think, This is only one chapter so far. Enjoy!
Ã¢â‚¬Å“Good evening Ronny.Ã¢â‚¬Â
Ã¢â‚¬Å“Evenin' mister Syre, sir.Ã¢â‚¬Â
The prisoner stands hunched at the doorway of my office in C Block, Grey Mill penitentiary, bloodshot eyes darting around the familiar setting before settling on the dark haired, spectacled individual sitting on a dark leather armchair in the corner of the room.
Ã¢â‚¬Å“Please, sit down,Ã¢â‚¬Â I lean forwards and pick up a case file from the coffee table positioned between the armchair and the couch Ronald Pierson just settled himself into. Ã¢â‚¬Å“Now I hear you've been starting a few fights recently Ronny,Ã¢â‚¬Â I say as I study the case file.
Ã¢â‚¬Å“Yes'm mister Syre, sir. I don' mean to but the guys jus' keep making me so angry, y'know?Ã¢â‚¬Â
Ã¢â‚¬Å“How do they make you angry?Ã¢â‚¬Â
Ã¢â‚¬Å“They say things, they know what I done.Ã¢â‚¬Â
Ã¢â‚¬Å“Now you know as well as I do, Ronny, that no-one apart from you, the parole board and I know what you did before you came here.Ã¢â‚¬Â
He jerks in his seat slightly and his fists clench for a split second. Ã¢â‚¬Å“But they say they know, mister Syre, sir. They say they know I eated those little kiddies. They say I is a monster an' they make howling noises at nights in the cells an' I just can' take it an' I just wanna hurt 'em so bad...Ã¢â‚¬Â His fists clench tighter this time, thumping down on the soft leather of the couch, he closes his eyes and drops his head towards the ground.
Ã¢â‚¬Å“Okay, Ronny, come back to me, it's all okay, we'll get it sorted-Ã¢â‚¬Â
Ronny, shaking slightly, raised his head again and stared unblinkingly into my eyes, Ã¢â‚¬Å“Mister Syre, sir, can I ask you something?Ã¢â‚¬Â
Ã¢â‚¬Å“Yes, of course. I'm always open to questions.Ã¢â‚¬Â
Ã¢â‚¬Å“The guys, they also told me you've been having problems. Problems with missus Syre.Ã¢â‚¬Â
I looked at Ronny over the top of my spectacles, piercing green eyes burning into him, Ã¢â‚¬Å“What's it to you?Ã¢â‚¬Â
Ã¢â‚¬Å“Just wondering, mister Syre, sir.Ã¢â‚¬Â
Ã¢â‚¬Å“Well next time keep your...wondering to yourself.Ã¢â‚¬Â I look up at the clock ticking away beside the bookcase. Ã¢â‚¬Å“Your session is over, get back to your cell.Ã¢â‚¬Â
Ronny glanced at the clock as well. Ã¢â‚¬Å“But there's still 20 minutes left-Ã¢â‚¬Â
Ã¢â‚¬Å“I don't care, to your cell, now!Ã¢â‚¬Â
I stand up and knock on the door, it opens and two burly prison guards in uniform step in, grasping each side of Ronny and dragging him out the door and down the cold stone corridor.
* * *
A key is inserted into a lock. There is a click as the door is unlocked and the handle is pushed down by the person on the other side.
Laura's eyes snap open as the familiar creak of the front door creeps up the stairs...
I shake off the light covering of rain on my coat and remove my shoes, placing them beside the door, next to my wife, Laura's, expensive black high heeled shoes that I bought her the year before for her birthday. I remove my coat and place it on the coat rack above the shoes and stop.
I look down again.
Three pairs of shoes?
There are never more than two at the front door unless we have a visitor, which is a rare occurrence; and no-one I know wears brilliant white boots, shining like the light from heaven.
Well, except for...
No, it couldn't be, he's never visited before. Or at least not when I've been around.
The patter of feet above me. The low thump of a cupboard door closing.
Ronny's words drift through my head, Ã¢â‚¬Å“They also told me you've been having problems. Problems with missus Syre.Ã¢â‚¬Â It couldn't be that, it's obviously something else.
I call up the stairs and begin to climb them, the dread of finding Laura with another man, held hostage or maybe even dead growing deeper every step.
I reach the landing and push open the bedroom door, Laura is sitting upright in the bed reading a book, trying to cover her blushed face; she is breathing quickly. She is huddled on one side of the bed yet the rest is crumpled as if someone departed from beneath the duvet in a hurry.
She looks up from her book Ã¢â‚¬" an old edition of Pride and Prejudice that she had bought at a church fairÃ¢â‚¬" when I enter the room, Ã¢â‚¬Å“Evening honey,Ã¢â‚¬Â she gasps between her heavy breaths.
Laura's clothes are strewn across the room and my eye settles upon a sock. One sock lying in the centre of the room. A single, black sock that was definitely not one of hers nor mine...
A cough from the large wooden cupboard to the left of the door.
Laura's expression turns from mild surprise to sheer panic and leaps out of the bed, skillfully taking the sheet with her to spare unwanted embarrassment Ã¢â‚¬" which I find rather unusual as she is my wife but I glaze over the fact, I am too preoccupied with the cupboard and its mysterious inhabitant.
Laura stops between me and the cupboard, her face a dark shade of maroon, her breath coming shallow and fast, Ã¢â‚¬Å“Ignore it David, I'm sure it was just a mouse.Ã¢â‚¬Â
Ã¢â‚¬Å“Unless mouses get very nasty colds I doubt it, now move,Ã¢â‚¬Â I push her gently out of the way and continue towards the cupboard.
I pull the door open hard enough to nearly cause it to fly off its hinges and uncover the coughing cupboard culprit.
My mouth drops open in complete shock and bewilderment, Ã¢â‚¬Å“What Ã¢â‚¬" the Ã¢â‚¬" hell?Ã¢â‚¬Â
Crouched in the corner of the cupboard clinging on to all his clothing apart from one black sock was Dr. Christopher McRae of Grey Mill penitentiary.
He smiles cheerfully up at me, a glint of fear in his eyes,Ã¢â‚¬Å“Good evening, Dr. Syre, what a pleasant surprise. We didn't expect you home for another few hours.Ã¢â‚¬Â
My eyes pierce his skin like the fires of hell, a fury like no other fills inside my chest, Ã¢â‚¬Å“Sorry, did I interrupt your evening? Please, continue.Ã¢â‚¬Â I step to the side of the cupboard and gesture for him to exit the cupboard.