Page 28 of Fight or Flight
The two sitting at the bench look exactly like someone who would be associated with my brother, the tattoos on their faces similar to the ones Saint was sporting. They both give a small chin lift in response before they continue with their silent conversation.
Within the next thirty minutes, another guy joins us but doesn’t acknowledge anyone as he continues to stare at his feet until the time when the bus arrives. We enter the vehicle, and the whole ride is silent, even the two guys who were conversing earlier fully focused on the landscapes passing behind the bus windows.
I’m mesmerized by the simplest things, and my hands itch to draw literally everything, but all I do is squeeze the bag I’m holding along with my drawings, making the plastic creak loudly, and continue to stare.
It’s like you remember what the world looks like, but at the same time, you forget. Hard to explain, but it’s one of the most bizarre feelings in my life. Observing things that normally wouldn’t even make me blink twice, with a new set of eyes, as if I was born anew today.
The bus takes us to Downtown Madison and stops in an almost empty parking lot next to a small building that has already seen its better days. As the doors of the bus open, I notice for the first time that there’s indeed a driver with us. I was too preoccupied with my internal freak out about being outside to even notice him. The guy looks like he’s a short walk from getting a heart attack as he stumbles heavily out of the cabin.
“’Ight, this is the Probation Division. Out you go, fellas,” he wheezes with the heavy voice of a smoker and gets out, only to immediately light up a smoke. He wipes the sweat from his forehead and nods his head toward the building when all we do is stare at him. “Off.”
This time, the six of us jump to our feet and exit the stifled interior of the bus. I take a deep breath but regret it on the spot as the fumes and smell of the city hit the back of my throat.
Muttering a curse, I follow the others into the building, where we’re quickly assigned a number of a cubicle we are meant to enter to meet with our new probation officer. I knock on the half-wall that displays my number and raise my brows when I see that it’s a female sitting behind the small desk that is almost bending under the weight of scattered papers. She’s very good-looking and elegant, which is in complete contrast to how this place looks, and I wonder what a person like her is doing working in this shithole.
She looks up from a document she is reading, and I instantly get my answer when her eyes latch onto my torso and arms and then study my face in a weird, predatory way.
What the fuck? I feel fucking naked.
“Aidan?” She asks, and I nod. “Have a seat.”
I plop gracelessly into the seat opposite her and look around, trying to avoid her weird stare before I drop my things next to the feeble chair that squeaks under my weight.
“So,” she claps her hands when the silence gets almost unbearable, and I start to shift in my seat. “Attempted murder of a police officer, arson, and gang activity. Phew, that’s a nice crime sheet.”
This time my eyes snap to hers, and I give her an “Are you fucking joking?” look, to which she giggles.
She smacks her red lips and looks down at the document she’s holding. “Getting out on parole after three years. Wow, someone must’ve had a good day within the justice system. Lucky you!”
I clear my throat and decide to speak. “You were meant to tell me what I will have to do to not be thrown back in?” I try to regulate my voice, but the small tremor gives my nerves away.
“Oh, pshh,” she waves a hand and laughs. “Right to the chase, huh? Okay. Well, Aidan, the first step would be for you to get a job. Since it seems you already got one, the next thing you do is get a place to live, where I can visit to see if your resocialization process is going smoothly. Once a month, we do a summary of your progress, yada yada, boring red tape bullshit stuff, and you avoid anything that could lead you toward breaking the law again or any type of offense. Oh, and you can’t leave the state without my permission, which would only be given if you have a good reason. Got it? Great...”
“Wait, you said I have a job? I don’t...” I shake my head just as a knock resonates behind me.
My parole officer jumps excitedly to her feet like it’s Christmas and Santa Claus just entered through the chimney. I wonder if she’s just overenthusiastic and loves her job or if she’s mentally challenged. I heard plenty of stories from other inmates about their parole officers being bonkers.
“Oh, hi...” She gives the visitor a similar appraisal look that I received at first, and I’m somewhat relieved that it just seems to be her M.O., and maybe she’s not set on seducing me. Which wouldn’t be bad in normal circumstances, but everything is far from normal right now.
“Sandra, you look lovely as always,” the deep voice responds, and finally, I look up from my slouched position to glance at the guy and then leap as if I were electrocuted. My breath gets stuck in my lungs as all the blood leaves my face.
Jesus, this day just won’t stop throwing emotional curveballs at me. I almost miss the simplicity and predictability of the prison. I’ve been out for like two hours, and the reality just can’t stop smacking me in the face.
The man I last saw in the courtroom, the man I nearly helped get murdered. Damon Brody is standing in front of me with a knowing smirk on his face.
I struggle to stand up, but when I do, I am quickly reminded that if it were a fair, one-on-one fight with this guy, he would snap me in half with the sheer advantage of his giant posture and the size of his muscles.
I worked out plenty in my cell, and I’ve gotten a lot bigger, but I still look like a twig next to this giant.
We eye each other for a minute, and soon, my look of terror transforms into a frown.
The guy still looks like a fucking Terminator, but you can see that those almost four years took their toll on him. His hair started to turn grayish right at his temples, and a few deep lines were added to his face. I notice the walking stick he grabs onto with a tight fist as if he’s worried that without it, he’s going to keel over. Involuntarily, I give him a questioning look as if to ask him if I’m responsible for that one, too, but all I get is a grin before he chuckles.
“What is it, man? You look as if you had just seen a ghost.”
I open my mouth to respond, but no sound comes out of me as I continue to stare. What do you say in a situation like this? I never thought I would see him again, hoping... I don’t know what I was hoping, but he’s the last person from my past that I thought I’d bump into.
“That’s so fucking hot,” Sandra whispers, which helps me snap out of it as I give her an incredulous look. Again, what the fuck is wrong with that woman?