A Stone's Throw

You still don't know how he got in, or even if he got into your cell at all. He might've just gotten into your mind to do some time. He brought light with him but it wasn't strong enough to cover you. You remained in darkness listening to his soft, sibilant voice. The conversation between the two of you still has you locked up in those moments, even as you're being strapped in.


LB: How do you feel?
You: How the fuck do you think I feel?
LB: You're angry. You think you don't belong here.

You're silent. Perhaps he'll leave if you don't respond. However, you're lonely. He's the only person you'll see before the morning crowds your vision with uniforms and cameras.

You: Why are you here?
LB: Why are you?
You: I'm not guilty.
LB: Aren't you?
You: Look, man, everybody fucking changed their story!

Now, it's your visitor that's silent. You look over at his glowing form, wondering what it would be like to cast no shadow, to always walk in the light. Funny how your mind has time to dwell on such matters. Funnier still when you remember that all you have, for these fleeting moments anyway, is time.

You: You know. You know I didn't do it.
LB: You're right. I do know that.
You: You're not going to say anything, are you? You…you could get me out of here.
LB: I could. But, I also know everything else that you did.

To end the story here would mean…well, you know quite well what it would mean. And to go on would mean more opportunities, more validation for your sentence. Wouldn't it be better to end it here? Before you run out of stones to cast? That is, if you ever had a pile to begin with…