Content Warning: This story includes references to trauma, abuse, physical violence, and death. While not graphically described, this may be emotionally distressing. Reader discretion is advised.
Chapter 1
Smith was happy, humming a tune. He’d just been granted parole. Finally. He’d gone through the motions, told them what they wanted to hear. He knew he’d messed up, but couldn’t quite care, either way.
They’d taken twelve years from him this time. Twelve fucking years. He’d played the games and hedged his bets. Surviving everything they’d thrown at him.
In prison, you either wise up or you get played every damn day. You might end up dead. Always playing roulette, never knowing how many rounds are loaded.
Any chance he might have had at rehabilitation was swallowed whole by a system so broken it only saw him as cheap labor. Cheap forced labor, at that.
He’d tried to play nice, to do the right things early on. He quickly saw how that only made him a target for the real threats in there: gangs.
It was a raw deal, no doubt. You need protection? Join a gang. Forget about any help from the law. The gang pulled you down with them, though. Never any advancement, always getting new charges, never any “good time”, but what could you do?
Some guys spent all their time working out, just to grow strong enough to protect themselves. Sometimes that worked. Others checked out, refusing housing to spend their time in the hole.
Anything to avoid getting beat down over and over. Having all their measly possessions stolen. Or worse.
Smith heard a faint growl that brought him back to the present. A few feet away, a black cat was backing up, ears flat, a low growl vibrated from behind his pursed lips.
Smith really liked cats. He lowered himself down, making himself as small as possible. He slowly showed his hands and began talking very low in soothing tones to calm the little guy down.
No longer seeing him as a threat, the cat eased into a crouch, ready to spring away, if needed. Smith smiled and told him he was a pretty boy. The cat tilted his head, as if in question.
Lights washed over him as a car turned the corner nearby. The cat hissed and was gone in a flash. Smith straightened, pulling himself back up and heard yelling in the distance.
The hairs on the back of his neck stood and his fists clenched. He could feel something was happening, something was off in the air.
He’d learned to trust his instincts long ago.
It was dark now and he melted into shadows, walking soundlessly toward the noise. He heard a slap and a thunk, movement on gravel. Moments later, there was a low groan.
Over it all was the sound of yelling and cussing.
Then came laughter. Not the funny kind. The menacing kind.
Smith moved faster, closing in; the noise was coming from behind a wooden fence that stretched out in front of him.
Suddenly, he heard running steps and melted deeper into the shadows. He watched as two men ran by, eyes forward. As they passed, one of the men’s faces was half-lit by car lights from across the way.
Smith recognized him in that instant and willed himself deeper into the shadow. He watched as the men jumped into a car parked across the street—a yellow impala—his eyes picking out the myriad details of the vehicle and the license plate.
Once they were out of sight, he felt a stone settle in his stomach. He knew he had to see what there was to see but felt only apprehension.
As he approached the fence, he heard a gasp. Moving faster now, he launched himself over to land in a small, graveled parking area.
Two cars sat at the opposite end. The dust accumulated on both was revealing; they had sat parked for a long time.
The parking area was empty except for a girl, lying on her side, facing away from him a few meters away. As he approached, she appeared completely still, as if unconscious or worse.
Drawing close, he could see her shallow breathing and finally let out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Kneeling down, he lightly touched her hand. She didn’t move.
Speaking in soft tones brought no response. The splash of red against the gravel was telling. Her face was bruised and slightly misshapen, but what caught his eye and his heart was the steady trickle of blood from her neck.
Knowing he’d be a suspect with his rap sheet, he knew he’d be better off walking away.
Once a felon, you were locked into a stereotype: everybody expecting the worse out of you. He’d seen guys come back to prison time and again, each time with a worse charge.
His case manager had warned him to keep away from anything that resembled a crime. She’d laughingly told him the closest he could get to a gun was watching an action movie. What a bitch.
Looking down at the girl, he felt something familiar wash over him, but couldn’t place the feeling or her face. He knew he couldn’t leave her lying there without trying to help. Spying her purse a few feet away, he prayed she had a phone.
He rushed to it, emptying its contents. There wasn’t much in it, no wallet, no phone, just the normal debris a woman accumulates over time.
However, there was a feminine napkin, which he used to place pressure over the wound on her neck.
He was at odds, not knowing what his next move should be. She needed help but during his time behind bars a great deal had changed. He hadn’t spotted a single payphone since he’d been out.
Looking around, he felt a lack of presence; this place felt deserted.
He dropped his face into his free hand, willing himself to come up with a plan that didn’t involve him going back to prison. Try as he might, he was drawing a blank.
He decided he needed to find help but balked at the thought of just leaving her there. Not knowing the extent of her injuries, he was scared to move her.
Lifting his face up, he smelled something foul.
He heard a scrape of gravel right behind him.
Before he could turn around, everything went black.
Stay tuned for Chapter 2
Author's Note:
This story didn’t get much love in the contest, but I stand by every sharp edge.
It’s gritty. Violent. Messy. And that’s the point.
I didn’t write it for approval. I wrote it because it wanted out. — Liora
Originally submitted to the Reedsy Prompt Contest #303, written in response to the line: “I didn’t have a choice”, this piece has grown substantially.
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Off to a strong start with this one. Nasty, brutish and short - just how I like them