Those dark eyes

I was rotting here, alone, in this cell of which my God would never rescue me, and I declare to this day without conviction that He has no reason to. Hell, maybe He put me here.

What did I do? it was sawed into my arm, to stare at me whenever I tried to wash my hands.

I would spend my life confined in purgatory before descending into Hell, I was only sixty, not healthy, but nevertheless I knew I still had a long way to go. I wanted to die, I did, I truly, truly did, with all of my heart I did, and on this morning my heart ached for the chair. I looked down at my scars, and then at the photograph in my hands, and her dark eyes, my eyes, eyes at I would never see in person.

I took a shaken breath and stood. I levitated down the hall to the showers. I grew accustomed to the coldness of the water hitting my skin like tacks. I dried off, wrapped the towel around my waste and began to walk when I saw him, the fucker that turned me in.

He stared at me, his eyes hallow before filling with hatred, his eyebrows pulling together to enhance his deathly glower. His long, brittle brown hair fell to his shoulders. He was skin and bones, hairy, ugly, like a ratty old cat. I wanted to torture him and he knew it, and, what made things better, was that it was just us here, and I held a razor in my right hand.

"Happy?" I asked, gesturing with the razor, "I know on the inside you are, you like what you did, and if you could go back in time you would, but you wouldn't change a thing you fucking prick. You're broken. You're a father and this is where you stand because you deserve it."

I cut him, slashed his wrist, not enough to kill him, just to make him feel it.

"I bet you like that, don't you? You sick fuck," I stared into his eyes, taking a step toward him, "You listen to me, and you listen good, I'll never let you get out of here, you're smart enough to convince them but me? I know you were born a monster and you'll always be a monster. I don't ever want you to look at your children, I don't care how much they miss you, how much they write you, tell you they love you and that you're not what you were, you are that exact person that they want to forget, and they will forget you, and you'll die in here, cold, alone, and unloved because that's what you deserve but I swear, so help me God if you ever speak to your daughter, let her know the sound of your voice, I'll tell her everything you did, then we'll go back to that cell, and I'll slit your damn throat."

I spat at him. It felt good to see him cry, finally. I looked down again at that picture in my hand, I tossed it in the trash, and I walked away from the mirror.