02-19-2014, 06:39 PM
7 Years Ago
The sun watched impassively overhead as its blistering rays scorched the bay of San Fransisco. The view was truly breathtaking if one could see beyond the blighted cesspool that was San Quentin State Prison. The primitive shackles had rubbed his wrists raw as the armoured van had bounced about along the road for countless hours.
It had been dark when the blunt faced guards had thrown him into the cursed vehicle and it had seemed like an eternity riding with the sullen bastard who had stared at him the whole time as if he were a wolf loose among a flock of sheep.
Damien smiled. Finally they had arrived at his new home and grave and it greeted him like an old friend. A half dozen men and women in black vests adorned with the San Quentin badge that they wore with so much pride awaited him in silent vigil. Sullen face prodded him with the butt of his energy baton as if he wanted to remain in the back of a van.
“Have no fear,”
he said in his polished British accent tinged with the memory of his time in Maine creating a musical cadence his mother loved. "I don’t want to spend another moment in here either, friend.”
That produced another prod in the back, this time harder. Damien simply rose and exited the van, savouring the breeze that caressed his face and awaited the approaching escort.
It was a skinny man with a balding tonsure who approached him first. Damien examined this unlikely paragon but was halted by the sharp tone in his voice as he spoke. “I am Warden Adam Beech, welcome to San Quentin, Oakland.”
***
“This here is the most secure facility in the world, despite what you may have heard,”
Beech was saying as they walked down a hall of what looked like stainless steel. The metallic shine was broken only at precise intervals by almost imperceptible indents that passed for doors. “Those doors”
Beech continued as he noticed Damien’s curiosity, “can be altered. One way Clear to look in or regular, just like glass.”
Beech’s sharp tone with that southern accent and barely decipherable words grated on his nerves but he contented himself to watch and listen lest the two dull-eyed fellows that served as an escort decided to use their weapons rather than just thinking of it.
It was something that had baffled Damien to no end. The ones who eyed him with hatred. Disgust he understood, even fear, but he had not done them any personal harm. Even had he been the terror they dreamed of, their violence was petty. It stunk of vengeance disguised behind a transparent veil of false justice.
“...and here we arrive at your home. Section C-5, Death Row.”
Damien’s attention was drawn back to Beech as they approached a dead end. The smooth surface of the wall was broken by a small indent and a panel. Beech pressed his face up against the obscured panel and the wall slid open to form a doorway.
The hall beyond was identical to the previous; Damien had to wonder if they meant to kill him with boredom. “Watch yourself, Oakland,”
Beech said, shuffling up to whisper in his ear. “Your pretty face won’t do you good here.”
Damien did not dignify that with a reply. He merely surveyed each face as they passed into the most notorious apartment blocks in the US. To say he was not impressed was an understatement. Beech listed each man’s crime as if he cared to know what monstrosities the dregs of humanity could commit. Rape and murder, mass murder, serial killing. It was all the same to him. Sociopaths, psychopaths and every other kind of –path you could think of arranged like trophies on display.
Damien soon ignored Beech’s droning list, distracted by the light and warmth that lay just beyond his reach. The illusive mystery confounded him more than anything in the world. What was it? Why did it taunt him so?
It had been the glow that had killed Elli, he was sure of it. Oh, it had been him. He had reconciled himself to the fact long since. He had dissembled the moment in his mind down to the last inch. He had grasped the light and it had given him strength. Power.
It had been the most glorious moment of his life, the moment before his world had burned around him. Literally.
“Here is where you will be staying.”
Damien resumed his attention and surveyed the room before his eyes. It was stark and drear. A smooth rounded chamber adorned with nothing but a toilet and a bed with a sealed bag containing his chosen possessions at its foot. It was surprisingly spacious though, a little smaller than the room he had spent his childhood in, which was by no means tiny.
“Alright, get settled in. You’ll be in here twenty hours a day, seven days a week for the rest of your life, best make do with it.”
Damien entered without a word and did not glance back as the door closed and resumed the dull metallic of a wall. He sat down on the bed, breathing in the sterile and scentless air. Why did the light elude him now? Why did it hide? It was his, he knew.
But how to make it mine again?
He had a long time to find the answer.
Edited by Damien, Feb 19 2014, 06:40 PM.
The sun watched impassively overhead as its blistering rays scorched the bay of San Fransisco. The view was truly breathtaking if one could see beyond the blighted cesspool that was San Quentin State Prison. The primitive shackles had rubbed his wrists raw as the armoured van had bounced about along the road for countless hours.
It had been dark when the blunt faced guards had thrown him into the cursed vehicle and it had seemed like an eternity riding with the sullen bastard who had stared at him the whole time as if he were a wolf loose among a flock of sheep.
Damien smiled. Finally they had arrived at his new home and grave and it greeted him like an old friend. A half dozen men and women in black vests adorned with the San Quentin badge that they wore with so much pride awaited him in silent vigil. Sullen face prodded him with the butt of his energy baton as if he wanted to remain in the back of a van.
“Have no fear,”
he said in his polished British accent tinged with the memory of his time in Maine creating a musical cadence his mother loved. "I don’t want to spend another moment in here either, friend.”
That produced another prod in the back, this time harder. Damien simply rose and exited the van, savouring the breeze that caressed his face and awaited the approaching escort.
It was a skinny man with a balding tonsure who approached him first. Damien examined this unlikely paragon but was halted by the sharp tone in his voice as he spoke. “I am Warden Adam Beech, welcome to San Quentin, Oakland.”
***
“This here is the most secure facility in the world, despite what you may have heard,”
Beech was saying as they walked down a hall of what looked like stainless steel. The metallic shine was broken only at precise intervals by almost imperceptible indents that passed for doors. “Those doors”
Beech continued as he noticed Damien’s curiosity, “can be altered. One way Clear to look in or regular, just like glass.”
Beech’s sharp tone with that southern accent and barely decipherable words grated on his nerves but he contented himself to watch and listen lest the two dull-eyed fellows that served as an escort decided to use their weapons rather than just thinking of it.
It was something that had baffled Damien to no end. The ones who eyed him with hatred. Disgust he understood, even fear, but he had not done them any personal harm. Even had he been the terror they dreamed of, their violence was petty. It stunk of vengeance disguised behind a transparent veil of false justice.
“...and here we arrive at your home. Section C-5, Death Row.”
Damien’s attention was drawn back to Beech as they approached a dead end. The smooth surface of the wall was broken by a small indent and a panel. Beech pressed his face up against the obscured panel and the wall slid open to form a doorway.
The hall beyond was identical to the previous; Damien had to wonder if they meant to kill him with boredom. “Watch yourself, Oakland,”
Beech said, shuffling up to whisper in his ear. “Your pretty face won’t do you good here.”
Damien did not dignify that with a reply. He merely surveyed each face as they passed into the most notorious apartment blocks in the US. To say he was not impressed was an understatement. Beech listed each man’s crime as if he cared to know what monstrosities the dregs of humanity could commit. Rape and murder, mass murder, serial killing. It was all the same to him. Sociopaths, psychopaths and every other kind of –path you could think of arranged like trophies on display.
Damien soon ignored Beech’s droning list, distracted by the light and warmth that lay just beyond his reach. The illusive mystery confounded him more than anything in the world. What was it? Why did it taunt him so?
It had been the glow that had killed Elli, he was sure of it. Oh, it had been him. He had reconciled himself to the fact long since. He had dissembled the moment in his mind down to the last inch. He had grasped the light and it had given him strength. Power.
It had been the most glorious moment of his life, the moment before his world had burned around him. Literally.
“Here is where you will be staying.”
Damien resumed his attention and surveyed the room before his eyes. It was stark and drear. A smooth rounded chamber adorned with nothing but a toilet and a bed with a sealed bag containing his chosen possessions at its foot. It was surprisingly spacious though, a little smaller than the room he had spent his childhood in, which was by no means tiny.
“Alright, get settled in. You’ll be in here twenty hours a day, seven days a week for the rest of your life, best make do with it.”
Damien entered without a word and did not glance back as the door closed and resumed the dull metallic of a wall. He sat down on the bed, breathing in the sterile and scentless air. Why did the light elude him now? Why did it hide? It was his, he knew.
But how to make it mine again?
He had a long time to find the answer.
Edited by Damien, Feb 19 2014, 06:40 PM.