“Thank you for that,” I whisper, unable to hide my own tears.
He nods. “Don’t expect it to happen again,” he grumbles.
“Don’t worry, I know the rules you guys have, I’m just surprised you broke them.”
He looks towards the window, his left knee jumping like he’s nervous. “I have a little sister too, and the last thing I’d want is for her to show up thinking I’m going to die, and not be able to say her last goodbyes. Gotta admit, Dover, I thought you’d be dead by nightfall.”
But I’m not dead.
My body might feel broken and bruised, and barely functional right now, but I’m still breathing. And even though I know there are people out there who have marked me for death, I’m going to get through this.
You only got three and half more years, Wes. If you can survive this, you can survive anything.
(Two Years Later)
Morning light filters in through the bars that line the window of my cell, waking me from a relatively good slumber for the first time in years. Today is my parole hearing, the first one since getting put in this joint. I’ve kept my nose clean, done my best to be a model inmate, and somehow managed to stay alive, despite all the odds against me.
It’s strange, but after the initial beating by JP and the few other inmates who attacked me, no one else has fucked with me. They call meThe Reaper, saying ‘only a man who has looked death in the face and lived to tell the tale, could still be breathing after everything that happened.’
I just call it dumb luck, or maybe I’ve just spent one of my nine lives and don’t know it yet.
They escort me through the hallways, my chains rattling the ground, the heavy links making it hard to walk. I may be a low-risk inmate, but they still have to follow their protocols, and any inmate brought before the parole board has to be chained.
They sit me down on a hard, unforgiving metal chair, facing a blank screen. A guard chains me to a table, the same guard that’s been somewhat protecting me since he let my sister come visit me in the hospital. I only know his last name, Rodgers, but the man has been looking out for me ever since I was healthy enough to be sent back to prison. He followed me from Ely to the hospital, and now here, a medium security facility in Lovelock.He was the only protection I had after everything went down, and I have no idea why.
When I first got to Ely, I ran into my uncle. The guy had been locked up for five years before I got there, and the second he saw me, he had me running the yard with his group. It was weird seeing my uncle again after all that time. I had no idea he was still alive until he confronted me on the yard, and basically stuck out his neck for me, offering me his protection. And damn did I need it. That first year was absolutely brutal. Not only was JP there tormenting me, but so were a few others who weren’t exactly fond of my dad. My uncle and his friends kept me protected the best they could, but he had no idea about the hit, and couldn’t prevent it. It took months of recovery for me to get back on my feet. I was in the hospital for at least a month before they transferred me to a secure, long-term nursing facility, where I had to basically figure out how to walk and breathe at the same time again.
I made it… but barely.
It was Rodgers who told me that my uncle and his buddies retaliated hard. Unlike me, JP didn’t survive his jumping, the shank in his carotid artery prevented it. For some reason, his death didn’t bring me joy like it should have. In fact, it did the opposite. It made me feel like shit. Sure, JP fucked me up and almost killed me, but did the asshole really deserve to die?
The screen suddenly flashes to life, and three men and a woman sit on the other side, all of them staring at me with wide eyes of fascination. The guy in the middle grabs a stack of paperwork and lightly taps it on the table before sorting through it.
“This hearing of the Nevada Board of Parole Commissioners is now in session regarding inmate Wesley Dover, Department of Corrections number 032726.”
He’s like a robot. Every word is said like he’s done this a thousand times before. There’s no judgment in his tone, just a strange neutral vibrato that sounds somewhat promising.
He looks down at the paperwork again, glances over the first few paragraphs then slowly raises his head, folding one hand over the other.
“Mr. Dover, you were sentenced to five years in the Nevada Department of Corrections following a conviction for aggravated assault stemming from an incident in a Reno club three years ago.”
It’s more of a statement than a question, but I find myself answering, anyway.
“Yes, sir.”
The woman beside him glances up at me before clearing her throat to speak. “It states in these court documents that the prosecution proposed an additional charge of intent to maim, but it was later dropped due to a lack of evidence.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The commissioner talks over her, regaining the floor. “The assault occurred after an altercation inside a nightclub, where the victim sustained multiple injuries that were deemed non-life threatening at the time, is that correct?”
I nod once.
“Yes, sir.”
Another commissioner flips through the file in front of him and stops on a page that makes his head shoot up as a look of concern appears in his eyes.
“This report states the altercation began after the victim made unwanted physical contact with a woman you were acquainted with.”
