One More Hour
Think of all the food the prisons could give to the hungry and homeless if only they would deny
people like me a final meal.
One more hour of sharing a cell with rats who are plotting my demise. Of listening to the guy in
the next cell puking. He never could get used to the stench of turpentine and flesh.
Speaking of flesh, how could I mutilate Jimmy and Heather? Sure, I was pissed at him for stealing her from me. But did I have to leave their body parts in the elevator for Mrs. Oak to find? She suffered a heart attack and croaked. I suppose I killed her, too. But she was ninety-four. How much more time did she have left anyway?
The last time my mother visited, her stare was glassier than the material between us. I could read her thoughts on her pursed lips: "Jackass son of mine."
I'm relieved that it's almost over. I think about the shower attacks. The midnight beatings. I'm thirty-two, but those incidents make me feel seventy.
Okay, I'm done bitching. Time for me to --
"Mark? It's seven-thirty! Final exams in one more hour."
I roll over in bed and rub my eyes. Damn, I forgot to set my alarm. "Thanks, Mom!"
Too much partying. How will I ever get into college with my crappy grades and zero motivation?
As I walk out the door, I hear my mother mutter, "Jackass son of mine."
_________________________________________________________________________________
*Note: This flash fiction story was published by The Lascaux Review in March 2014.
people like me a final meal.
One more hour of sharing a cell with rats who are plotting my demise. Of listening to the guy in
the next cell puking. He never could get used to the stench of turpentine and flesh.
Speaking of flesh, how could I mutilate Jimmy and Heather? Sure, I was pissed at him for stealing her from me. But did I have to leave their body parts in the elevator for Mrs. Oak to find? She suffered a heart attack and croaked. I suppose I killed her, too. But she was ninety-four. How much more time did she have left anyway?
The last time my mother visited, her stare was glassier than the material between us. I could read her thoughts on her pursed lips: "Jackass son of mine."
I'm relieved that it's almost over. I think about the shower attacks. The midnight beatings. I'm thirty-two, but those incidents make me feel seventy.
Okay, I'm done bitching. Time for me to --
"Mark? It's seven-thirty! Final exams in one more hour."
I roll over in bed and rub my eyes. Damn, I forgot to set my alarm. "Thanks, Mom!"
Too much partying. How will I ever get into college with my crappy grades and zero motivation?
As I walk out the door, I hear my mother mutter, "Jackass son of mine."
_________________________________________________________________________________
*Note: This flash fiction story was published by The Lascaux Review in March 2014.
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