Malcolm Fox had a plan. There was nothing overly ambitious about it. After graduating college, he would move to California and help his older sister run her tech company. At some point he would settle down and have a couple of kids then preferably live in the same neighborhood as his sister and her future family.
There would be backyard barbeques and pool parties. He would take his family on cross country road trips. His kids would grow up and the cycle would repeat with his grandchildren. It was not the life for everyone, but it was the one he wanted.
What was it they said about the best laid plans? For the life of him, he could not remember. He began to panic; he couldn't remember much of anything. Fragments of memories drifted through a deathly silent void.
Was he dying? Every effort to move was met with a pain that paralyzed him and stole his breath.
After one particularly excruciating breathless moment, he felt a surge of rage. What he found more painful than his destroyed body was his mind's refusal to conjure a single image of his sister. She was the greatest thing in his life and he could not remember her face.
He tried to silence the ringing in his ears. Failing that, he wanted to push past it and focus his thoughts. More thoughts were fading. What memory would vanish next? Her name, what was her name?
The rage propelled him. He clawed cement until his finger bled and dragged legs that he imagined had been reduced to fleshy casings for shards of bone. Death would not claim him without a fight.
Malcolm propped his body against the wall and strained for every ragged breath.
His vision blurred then temporarily vanished behind a veil of darkness. Thoughts came to him in liquid spirals; there was a sensation that his brain was floating. For a moment the pain was diminished to a low throbbing; the next moment it returned magnified beyond comprehension.
Malcolm screamed and thrashed then his eyes remembered how to process visual data.
He was no longer outside. It took his mind a moment to sort through the fog, but he was able to discern his surroundings.
There were all the trappings of a small motel room. A decade old box set television was screwed into a two drawer dresser. The curtains were a shade of brown that he refused to believe anyone would find appealing.
Because of his preoccupation with his ability to see again, he was startled by the discovery that he was not alone.
He quickly subdued any outward sign of panic; obviously someone had brought him to this room.
"I need you to look at me."
It was the first clear sound he had heard in hours. Surprisingly, the voice belonged to a woman. It was then that he became very aware that he was in extremely close proximity to an unknown woman in a strange motel.
With considerable effort, he turned from the window and onto his stomach. He inhaled sharply as pain reminded him of its presence.
After what felt like an eternity he was finally able to face the owner of the voice. Immediately he was struck by how hauntingly beautiful she was.
For a brief moment, he thought she was glowing; like a messenger from heaven. There was a serenity about her that he found simultaneously welcoming and terrifying.
Her tone grew insistent. Words came to him in a jumbled mess and he strained to make sense of them. The only salient thought that would prevail was that she was not his sister. At the moment he could not conceive why that was an important distinction to make.
In stark contrast to her appearance, the woman's voice however was far from angelic. It had a huskiness to it with an oddly attractive quality to it.
Her words were muddled and unclear after that. The ringing had returned; as had the headache and nausea. A moment later the woman had been reduced to a blur.
Some distant memory recognized the signs of a possible concussion. The rest of his brain tried to discern what the woman was saying. He definitely heard the word kiss.
Did she want to kiss him? Was he supposed to kiss her? Either way, it was an unusual request given the current circumstances.
The blur vanished and Malcolm was not proud of his initial reaction. He panicked. There was a very real fear that he had been abandoned. It was ridiculous to feel that way about a woman he did not know, but here he was wishing she was still there.
"In time you'll learn the reason you're here."
Another clear statement. She was still there.
"Live once more or die here. In the end you will be no more."
Was she threatening him? What was her end game? It was then he felt her icy lips on his. Then he felt nothing else.
*
Vincent's driver was an avuncular man full of stories of his most memorable passengers. After a particularly raunchy tale that ended with a backseat full of baby oil, cookie crumbs, and a hundred dollar tip, the driver excused himself to answer a phone call.
As the pair traveled sparsely lit streets devoid of other vehicles, Vincent observed the antics of a few of the more colorful characters that he assumed were living their best lives in the early morning hours.
He was grateful for the much needed distraction. However, even the scantily clad women, flamboyantly dressed men, and the oddly half dozen people dressed in leotards could not erase two thoughts he had about the old man.
A best case scenario would involve Vincent being given the time to handle things. Hopefully the worst thing that happened would be Vincent having to bail the old man out on assault charges.
Another notification buzzed his leg. Vincent confirmed another appointment then prepared for his next stop.
*
Ahmed Dogo opened his eyes and sighed. Why had he expected a different sight than the concrete ceiling just an arm's length from his face? Maybe he was treating the power of positive thinking too literally. His cellmate, Frank Watson, was not helping the situation by singing an admittedly catchy song about a man that shot another man just to watch him die.
There were no signs of half naked women in sarongs serving him candy colored drinks poolside. The closest thing he had was Frank's surprisingly dulcet singing voice and a clogged metal cylinder doing a lousy imitation of a toilet.
Sadly his reality still consisted of a bunk bed shared with Frank within the confines of an eight foot high, eight foot wide steel and concrete enclosure.
"Not bad Frank. Not bad."
"Told you you'd like the Man in Black."
"I recognize a kindred spirit. What else does he sing?"
Just as Frank began singing about an unfortunately named young man, the two men were interrupted by the sound of their cell door's locking mechanism being disengaged.
"Dogo. You got a visitor."
Ahmed dropped down from his bunk and slipped on his shoes as he sized up the guard. He was new. His posture reflected a rigidity that all the new guys had when they first walked the block. Ahmed smiled. Inflexibility was not a good attribute here. The new guy would learn to bend like the veterans or break like all the washouts.
The guard was a head shorter than him and Ahmed was not exceptionally tall. He secured Ahmed in leg and wrist cuffs then escorted Ahmed down the long passageway.
Of the dozen or so prisoners awake, only two of his fellow inmates bothered to acknowledge them with curses and threats.
"I think Bobby likes you." The guard ignored Ahmed's remark and continued with a measured stride that hinted at hundreds of hours of marching in step with a unit.
"Just making a little conversation. Things go a lot smoother around here when the lines of communication are open."
"I don't talk to garbage like you more than I have to." There it was; classic rookie bravado. At least one of the lifers would make it a personal project to cure the guard of that particular affliction.
Four minutes later, the two of them walked past the usual visitors lounge. Ahmed's curiosity was piqued. Whomever wanted to see him was a person of some importance.
Another two minutes brought them outside of an unmarked door. The guard knocked four times then stepped to the left.
The door opened and the guard gave Ahmed a hard shove. Ahmed stumbled inside the room but regained his balance before he had an opportunity to make contact with the U shaped desk in the center of the room.
Seated behind the desk were three individuals. Ahmed recognized two of them. Occupying the middle seat was Warden Devos.
A fitness buff, the thickly muscled and clean shaven man could still bench four hundred pounds at fifty years old; an impressive feat he found reasons to flaunt.
A comfortable mix of stern and fair, Devos was one of the few people Ahmed respected in the system.
To Devos right was the prison's psychologist, Dr. Valencia Okafor. She made no attempts to hide her femininity; a bold choice considering the hundred or so inmates that had been deprived of a female's touch for upwards of a decade. Her dark shoulder length hair had a glossy sheen to it. If she wore makeup, it was subtle and highlighted a flawless complexion the color of cocoa.
Ahmed remembered her being roughly his height with a pair of shapely legs that comprised most of those seventy inches. Unfortunately the desk hid them from view and denied him a rare piece of eye candy.
The third man was a mystery. Wisps of white hair clung stubbornly to a scalp that appeared as if it had been massaged with a cheese grater. Two thicker tufts protruded from either side of his head like foam horns.
Ahmed stifled a chuckle; he had seen a sci-fi parody on movie night that had a mad scientist character that looked remarkably like this man.
"Dogo. Ahmed," the warden began. "One count Driving Under the Influence. One count Reckless Driving. One count involuntary vehicular manslaughter."
Ahmed lowered his head in shame. One stupid choice had led to another man's death.
"Based on Dr. Okafor's recommendation, we're allowing you to listen to Mr. Henderson's proposal.
Ahmed looked up at the trio. What sort of proposal? Parole? As if reading his thoughts, Mr. Henderson stared directly at him.
"Mr. Dogo, is it? What I propose to you is an immediate, get out of jail opportunity."
"What's the catch?"
"The catch, as you put it, is that you will no longer be a private citizen. You will live where I say, work where I say, and associate with whom I say."
"Old white dude restricting my freedom? Doesn't sound that much different from being a prisoner."
"Believe me, there's a world's difference between what I'm offering and your current situation. Your psychological profile says you want to pay for your crimes. Here's your chance. Being locked in a cage helps no one. You didn't just kill a man; you erased his role in this world. If you're truly remorseful, if you want to honor this man's life you will fill some of those holes your actions created."
"How am I supposed to do that?"
"I will provide the means. So I ask you, Mr. Dogo, are you ready to pay your debt to society?"