Tick, Tick

Wife. Kids. House in the suburbs. The position in his firm that he'd been lusting after ever since he joined the company. A cat. With each passing tick of the lone clock on the wall, Silas added another achievement to the mental list he was drawing up, calmly ignoring the simpering cries of his cellmate who lay crumpled in a snotty, crying head on the bunk behind him.

One day, he thought. One more day and I'm free.

It had been almost a month since he'd last seen sunlight; gazed upon his wife's face; seen his children smile. Thirty-two years he'd been alive and in those thirty-two years, he'd never felt as broken as he did in that moment.

Tick.
Tick.

Each passing second was a reminder of his imminent freedom - the end of the time he had to serve for his crimes. Crimes. The word ran sour in his mind - it was a joke. A rancid joke that curdled every other thought it touched. The only crime he was guilty of committing was being in the wrong place at the wrong time - if that could even be considered a crime. Things would have been a lot different if he had just listened to Pamela and called in sick that morning. He should have known better. The woman was always right.

For the first time since he'd been thrown into that ratty jail cell, Silas let his shoulder's slump forward in dejection. Pamela. What would she think of him now? Would she believe the stories the media and the authorities were telling her about him? And what about this kids? How had she explained to them that their daddy was locked up in prison because he did horrible, horrible things? The thoughts passing through his mind were almost enough to break him and turn him into an inconsolable, blithering mess like his cellmate.

It is not easy to live as a framed man.

The clanging sounds of iron on iron smashed through his thoughts.Turning, Silas saw Norman, one of the more friendlier prison guards, standing in front of the cell, a piece of paper in his hand. "For you," the man grunted, passing Silas the slip of paper through the cell bars.

"What is it?"

"Last Meal card, Silas." The note of sympathy in the guard's voice was impossible to miss. "Choose your favorite."

Staring at the piece of paper, Silas felt everything inside of him shatter.

It was not easy to live as a framed man - but it was even worse to die as one.


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This was just something I came up with as I was trying to amuse myself during a power outage. It could use some work, I know. But I thought it might be worth the share. 
Maybe I'll continue with it, maybe I won't. Who knows? 

Feel free to leave your comments below :)