Page 2 of Maddening Fixation

Just sky.

I inhaled deeply.

The air burned all the way down to my lungs.

My eyes closed briefly.

No rust. No despair.

Just freedom.

The sensation should have felt glorious.

Instead, it felt strange.

Freedom was a luxury I’d almost forgotten how to carry.

My chest expanded beneath the countless scars that marked my body.

Each one had a story.

Knife wounds. Burn marks. Broken bones that healed crooked. Bullet fragments still buried beneath flesh.

A map of survival carved directly into my skin.

The deepest scars stretched across the left side of my face.

Two vicious gashes twisted the corner of my mouth upward into what most people mistook for a permanent sneer.

My left eye was worse.

A prison-made blade had nearly taken it during my second year inside.

The eye remained pale blue, clouded and damaged.

The doctors had managed to save it. Barely.

Most people couldn’t hold my gaze for longer than a few seconds.

They said it made me look insane.

I never corrected them.

Fear was often more useful than respect.

Prison tattoos crawled across my neck and disappeared beneath the collar of my black shirt.

Crude black ink.

Symbols earned through blood.

Symbols recognized by every mafia family and criminal syndicate from Dublin to New York.

At the center sat three words.

Blood For Blood.

Not a threat.