FFF #39 Inmate No. 006482

Thanks to Cormac Brown for the opportunity to participate in Friday Flash Fiction.

FFF #39  Inmate No. 006482

She knew time was running out, fast, but opening that door was Pandora’s Box all over again.

She sat, her hand on the knob to the courtroom, taking deep breaths, trying to calm herself. On the other side sat the man that had haunted her dreams since she was a child.

The letter requested her presence for the determination of his parole. Apparently, he had manners while locked away, but no one, no one in their right mind does what he did.

Each remorse letter reeked of lies, and each she had received had thrown her into a state of panic that no amount of Prozac, Xanex, or Zoloft could calm. Each resulted in more therapy sessions, a change in sleeping pills and the disruptive thoughts of going into hiding to escape his knowledge of her home or work addresses.

Deeper breaths, another Xanex- her third in an hour- and finally the line of people waiting behind her forced her to open the door.

She made it to a corner seat near the door, in case she became sick she could make a quick exit, and avoided looking at anyone or anything other than her black alligator purse.

“All rise…” was a foggy sound in her ears until the person standing next to her nudged her into action.

She ran through the morning’s docket in her mind, trying to calm the screaming child within, until his name was called.

“Case No. 10024633 regarding determination of patrol for Inmate No. 006482, Cornell Jenkins.”

Hands and feet shackled, wearing orange, the man now in his seventies, shuffled through a side door and was seated to the left of the judge. His eyes scanned the crowd searching, searching only for her. Their eyes locked and she could still see that evil smirk in them. He hadn’t changed, fifty five years, locked up and still he hadn’t changed.

She felt the fear of her eight year old mind surfacing, clawing to get out. Beads of sweat poured down her forehead and her back. She wiped her clammy hands on her slacks to keep from remembering his touch.

She felt herself beginning to cave. A flood of suppressed memories bubbled to the top. His echoing laugh as he forced her to watch her parents be tortured until death was cruelly administered, her own beating followed up by being kidnapped, their five years hidden in the dilapidated cabin miles from civilization, and her silent cries as he molested her over and over again.

The dark cellar seemed like a haven compared to facing him. She was on the brink of starvation when she was found. She remembered the officer who she shrank from then fiercely attacked once he took hold of her, the placement in foster care after she became so uncontrollable that her grandparents couldn’t handle her. Then came letters, the awful letters that opened the wounds again and again.

“Ms. Alton, do you have a say in this proceeding?”

Looking at the judge with a tear streaked face, she approached the podium.

“Your Honor, this man will never change,” she felt more reckless courage than ever before, “if you give him parole, I fear for my life as well as the lives of any children he may encounter. May he burn in hell.”

She sat in her seat, digesting what she had just said, tracing the lines on her purse.

“In the case of Inmate No. 006482, Cornell Jenkins, parole is denied.”

A sense of relief entered and she quietly thanked God that she would still make her two o’clock counseling session.